


Mismatched

by tristinai



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Bisexual Cullen, Drinking to Cope, Eventual Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, M/M, Minor Character Death, Pining, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation, Social Anxiety, Unresolved Emotional Tension, alternating pov, blowjob, cullrian - Freeform, fluff sprinkled in, hints of Adoribull, hints of Cassaric if you squint, hints of Cullavellan, mentions of lyrium addiction, past Dorian x Rilienus, platonic Adoribull, soulmarks AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-03-08 05:19:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 38,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13451373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristinai/pseuds/tristinai
Summary: Dorian knows there's no way this could end well.





	1. Temptation

**Author's Note:**

> My attempt at a soulmate AU but with a twist: Dorian and Cullen are not soulmates. There are already one or two soulmarks/soulmates AUs for Cullrian so I wanted to try something different. As a preemptive warning, if you are looking for lighthearted fluff, this may not be the fic for you.
> 
> When writing this, I kept three conditions in mind for the soulmarks:
> 
> 1) Everyone has a soulmark; only two will be the same  
> 2) Soulmarks can change but when they do, the experience is painful  
> 3) When someone passes to the Fade, their soulmate will feel it (an often excruciating experience)
> 
> I did my best to edit without a beta reader so there may be mistakes. Happy reading and let me know what you think!

The first time Dorian sees his soulmark, he releases a breath akin to a sigh, the pounding in his chest erratic with the trills of arousal, no longer distracted with the trepidation that came with every casual encounter. Pale skin is exposed, the expanse of the Commander's back a map he can trace and he does, his fingers careful to avoid the golden sun between the Fereldan's shoulder blades. So unlike his own, a dark snake wrapped around a faded orb that marks the upper part of his right arm.

 

In truth, Dorian knows Cullen can't possibly be his soulmate as the man bearing the mage's mark had died some years ago. But there's always that fear that he will one day again see the matching snake and orb on another's skin. Another man he will fail to protect because such luxury as true love isn't meant for people like Dorian. Marks have been known to change, in rare instances, yet the Tevinter is intimate enough with life's cruelties to know that if such ever happens to him, it will be a savage joke carefully crafted by the Maker before the inevitable fall.

 

He vows never to open his heart again to another man.

 

That's why fucking Cullen Rutherford is safe. Out there, there is another – perhaps some bright eyed, beautiful young woman – whose skin is marked with a burst of sun, waiting until the moment the Commander's eyes flicker shyly to her own and there will be that instantaneous connection, that sense of inevitability, that draws the two together.

 

For now, Dorian can be a handsome diversion, a part he has learned to play quite well.

 

Aware that a pair of honey-colored eyes are hungrily drinking in his naked flesh, Dorian's careful smile becomes an amused smirk, as he folds his arms over his chest and tilts his head coyly.

 

“Like what you see, Commander?”

 

His rich voice has dropped, sultry purr having its desired effect. Though Cullen always carries with him an aura of control that commands dominance in all affairs related to warfare, he is woefully unmatched when it comes to affairs that reside in the privacy of one's bedroom. The tips of the Fereldan's ears burn, his voice wavering as he struggles for a response.

 

“M-Maker, you're...”

 

“Careful, Commander,” Dorian whispers, a hand on the ex-templar's waist drawing him closer. It startles him, how warm the Commander's skin feels beneath his fingertips, despite the chill in the loft. Something rough, familiar, buried beneath years of carefully layered nonchalance, threatens to break through, the intensity near enough to give the mage pause. But like most uncomfortable things, he ignores the sensation, his mustache tickling the edge of Cullen's ear. “If I didn't know better, I'd almost think you _wanted_ me.”

 

The tease is enough to make Cullen groan in frustration, calloused fingers reaching perhaps more roughly than intended as they grip the mage. Its desire spurred by desperation that makes the Commander growl as he takes the Tevinter's lips, has him kissing Dorian like he's a thirsty man that's stumbled upon that Maker-awful oasis in the bloody Western Approach Lavellan had dragged them off to (even thinking it momentarily makes the mage recall the grains of sand that took forever to get out of his robes) and Dorian's kissing Cullen back just as desperately, cock filling, moan stifled at the back of his throat.

 

He's not sure at what point he ends up horizontal on the Commander's bed, fingers and lips exploring him as eagerly as his hands greedily memorize the feel of pale skin burning with the heat of a furnace. But eventually, the mage settles beneath the Commander's weight with an ease as natural as the breath that passes his lips, gasping and sighing when the Fereldan sheaths himself completely in the tight heat that Dorian provides.

 

It feels...perfect.

 

That should have been the first sign that Dorian is not as safe as he believes.

 

*

 

It shouldn't have been this way.

 

By all accounts, the months of shy glances and flustered conversations should have found the Commander in the Inquisitor's bed. Since Haven, the two have engaged in a repartee that has bordered on awkward flirtation, Lavellan's curiosity at Cullen's lack of romantic attachment often leaving the poor man unable to form a coherent sentence and quickly excusing himself from the conversation.

 

It's quite the opposite of what Dorian has experienced.

 

Upon meeting the man in Haven, Dorian felt this overwhelming compulsion, a need to be _closer_ and as he was no stranger to desire, he wrote it off as yet another pretty face, head already forming the numerous ways he could broach the subject delicately to see if Cullen has similar inclinations.

 

That was until the Commander opened his mouth.

 

After one conversation, it was clear that Cullen did not trust Dorian. After a handful of conversations in Haven, it became clear that Cullen hardly even _liked_ the mage.

 

“Creators, could you two at least try to be civil for five minutes,” Lavellan had finally snapped, after yet another War Council, with Dorian providing his expertise on the Venatori, devolved into yet another heated argument between him and the Commander.

 

“Remind your _Commander_ that 'blood magic' is no more allowed in Tevinter than the South, and that not all of us 'Vints have practiced it, and perhaps we can practice something of civility,” Dorian had said, coolly.

 

“I wasn't implying that _you_ have yourself practiced it! I was merely saying—”

 

“How misguided of me to misunderstand what you meant by ' _you Tevinters—'”_

 

“Enough! Your bickering is getting us nowhere!” Cassandra managed to shout above both of them.

 

Cullen at least had the humility to look embarrassed by his outburst. Dorian, born of stubborn pride, had glowered petulantly and silently fumed.

 

Both were banned from the War Room until they reconciled, a quick exchange of disingenuous apologies after forced by the Inquisitor to make amends. As an added punishment, she also demanded they seek common ground and get to know each other.

 

Dorian agreed out of his growing friendship with Lavellan. Cullen, out of affection.

 

And that was how the chess games started.

 

*

 

“Why do you cover your mark?”

 

The question takes Dorian by surprise, rook nearly dropping from his fingers. His eyes no longer perceive the board before him but dart up to see the Commander regarding him with a curiosity that has a line forming between his brows.

 

Cold dread settles low in the pit of the mage's chest, an image of sharp cheekbones and a curled smile reopening a wound that nearly makes his lips twitch in a frown.

 

Instead, Dorian makes a sound of disgust, not unlike one the Seeker reserved for their resident wordsmith. “A Tevinter with a snake marking? It's rather _gauche_. Besides, I don't see you strutting around Skyhold and bearing your mark for the entirety of the Inquisition.”

 

“That would require spending most of my days shirtless.”

 

“It's not a sight many would object to, Commander.”

 

Cullen colors at that, still as uncomfortable as ever in acknowledging that some would find him desirable. It should be enough of a deflection but given how sharp the man's mind is, able to as easily best Dorian at chess as he can formulate tactics that saw their troops to victory at assumed disadvantages, it doesn't surprise the mage when the Commander recognizes what Dorian is doing and persists. If anything, it only makes that warning grow louder in Dorian's head at how _familiar_ they have become.

 

“You often complain of the cold, yet wear ill-suited—”

 

“I wouldn't expect you barbarians to understand what passes for _stylish_ in Tevinter.”

 

“...alright, _stylish,_ ” the Commander emphasizes, failing to hide a bemused smirk, “clothing that hardly covers your left shoulder. Yet, you seem to make particular effort into ensuring nobody sees your right arm.”

 

Dorian places his rook at random, too distracted to curse when Cullen immediately takes it. He's too distracted to focus, his head attempting to navigate how to get around this conversation he has no interest in continuing.

 

“A snake and orb? It's so typically Tevinter, it's almost tasteless,” he answers, nonchalantly. “Perhaps I have no desire to remind everyone of just how _Tevinter_ I am.”

 

“You've never denied your heritage, even boasted of it at times,” Cullen points out.

 

Fasta vass, he has him there.

 

After a moment of carefully considering his options, Dorian settles on a half-truth, hoping it's enough to stave the Commander's curiosity.

 

“In Tevinter, we don't have the same luxury of deviating from expectation. Such frivolities as 'finding our match' gets in the way of careful breeding. And how can one breed the perfect scion if they're off gallivanting with a Soporati or, worse, someone of the same gender? Far easier to cover and ignore our shame instead of entertaining what we can never have.”

 

The answer troubles Cullen, lips twitching in a frown. There's a sadness in his honey-brown eyes that Dorian refuses to meet, looking away as he feels his cheeks heat. He's said too much, exposed more than he intended, though he spoke only a truth known to everyone in Tevinter.

 

Unlike the Southern surfacers, Tevinter and Dwarven societies are so bound by caste and tradition that soulmarks are viewed as blemishes, at best an inconvenience and at worst, capable of disrupting social order and throwing the entire system into chaos.

 

“You're not at all wondering who in Thedas shares the same mark as you?” Cullen asks.

 

There's a burning in Dorian's arm, a phantom sensation that makes him bite down on his lip. He doesn't meet Cullen's eyes.

 

“No one does,” Dorian answers. “Not anymore.”

 

It's enough to fill the Commander's eyes with a look the mage can't stand.

 

_Pity._

 

They finish their game in awkward, stifling silence.

 

*

 

Dorian needs a few days to complete a task for Lavellan, or so he tells himself. It's research that goes nowhere with Skyhold's miserable collection of texts, tomes that are more concerned with contributing to the prevailing Southern Chantry narrative than passing on any real knowledge. His research sees him out of bed earlier than has become habit and curled in his chair, absently rifling through pages of useless books until the candles are down to their last bit of wax, the words blur, and he has no choice but to retire for the evening.

 

Sometimes, when the research had become so monotonous that it bores him to tears, he finds his mind wander to that place he has been trying to avoid, a face he tries so hard to forget creeping from the edges of memory.

 

Rilienus.

 

And all it takes is a moment for him to crack, for his eyes to mist, and trembling hands to place the book down on his lap as he takes a deep, shuddering breath.

 

Venhedis, does it _hurt_.

 

By the third day of this, he takes to the bottle. Alcohol has been the only real solace he has found and he doesn't want to chance breaking before an audience. So he drinks alone in his room, already on his second bottle, silently berating himself for revealing something so intimate to the Commander.

 

Rilienus had been his weakness. Still is. His ghost left a trail of scars beneath the carefully crafted mask the mage wears. And having given Cullen a glimpse of the pain Dorian bears in silence has shown the Commander just how sad and pathetic his pretty paramour is.

 

Thedas has many tales of those who lost their soulmate young. Some die from the pain of loss, a very visceral and violent ache that tears one from the inside when the connection is severed and one half passes to the Fade. Others grow old and bitter, lost in a cacophony of purposeless survival, the few who find love again in the stories often left later when their new lover finds the one who bears their matching mark.

 

It is considered the greatest tragedy to lose one's match. And Dorian isn't sure he can ever look Cullen in the eyes again and stand the sight of the man's pity.

 

So, he resolves himself to avoid the Fereldan and to drink the rest of his wine, if only to be temporarily lost in the bliss that inebriation provides.

 

What he doesn't anticipate in this plan of his is the knock that echoes in his quarters, bleary eyes darting up to his door. He's curled on the cold, stone floor, bottle held at an awkward angle, red droplets dribbling down the bottle's side onto unsteady fingers.

 

Who would bother with him at this hour of the night?

 

He stares, perhaps willing this unwelcome guest to leave with a look they couldn't possibly perceive, but another knock resounds as loudly moments later.

 

"Fasta vass, I'm coming," he grumbles, standing on shaking legs.

 

He manages to only stumble once into his dresser, knocking over a bottle of oil. It shatters noisily but he stomps mindlessly onto the broken glass with his boots as he makes his way to the door. He manages another generous swig from the wine bottle as he opens it, unsteady balance barely keeping him upright.

 

It's a sound that may have been one of shock, or disapproval, or something in-between that has the mage stare blearily at the man whose disrupted his evening of self-pitying lack of sobriety.

 

Standing on the other side is Cullen, armor absent, hideous fur covering a cotton shirt that looks far too thin to protect against the cruel, biting evening chill. It hugs the man's torso firmly, has arousal igniting as Dorian draws his eyes over the Commander, drinking in the delicious sight of him. Even in his miserable state, the mage easily welcomes any other feeling than the loss that's borrowed a deep, empty hole no amount of drinking has ever been able to fill.

 

“Well, Commander. I can't say I'm not surprised,” Dorian slurs, nearly falling into the door. He laughs as Cullen catches him, wine bottle clattering and spilling its contents onto the stone floor. There's a worrying look on the Fereldan's face but the mage ignores it, nosing coyly at the ex-templar's neck. “I could use a good fuck.”

 

He can't be certain if it's the crassness of his statement or his inability to stand straight that makes the Commander flinch but as Dorian tries to suckle on pale skin flecked with stubble, Cullen pushes the mage back gently, grip just firm enough to keep the Tevinter from falling over. “Dorian, I don't think—”

 

“You don't want me?”

 

There is a note of dejection in his voice, uncharacteristic of his usual demeanor, as the mage tries for a playful pout. It has its desired effect, Cullen immediately flushing, taken off guard.

 

“What? N-no! Of course I—that is—you're very handsome and I—but this is not...”

 

And Dorian takes the opportunity to wrap his arms around the flustered Commander, sliding a hand down to grab a handful of the Fereldan's ass. He only gets as far as a light nip on the Fereldan's neck before he's once again pried away.

 

“Dorian...”

 

It's a plea that breaks into a frustrated groan.

 

“Now, Commander, there's no need to play coy,” the mage purrs. “Perhaps, a little incentive...”

 

His hand ghosts over the bulge that's begun to form in Cullen's trousers, the light touch enough to draw a shudder from the blond. But just as Dorian's fingers begin to toy with the laces, a hand on his wrist stops him.

 

“Dorian.”

 

It's not a shout but it carries with it an authority that leaves no room for challenge. And while Dorian has a rebellious streak that often left him pushing the boundaries as a youth, he has no desire to question that sharp tone that has carried armies through victory.

 

He submits.

 

All interest in seduction evaporating, he looks into a pair of concerned eyes and it makes something twist in his chest. There is a question that goes unasked.

 

“I don't want to talk about it,” he says, quietly.

 

He turns away, attempts to slip out of Cullen's gentle grasp but his legs are no more steady now than they had been before Cullen came knocking on his door. He trips over his abandoned bottle of wine, hands catching him before he can fall face first but as his balance is regained, the mage shifts away from the Commander's touch.

 

“Dorian, the other day—”

 

“What part of 'I don't want to talk about it' does your small, Fereldan brain not understand!” he snaps, kicking away the wine bottle.

 

“We don't have to discuss this. But, please, let me—”

 

“I'd much rather you do the sensible thing and leave!”

 

“Will you at least give me a chance to—”

 

But Dorian refuses to let him get a word in. “Don't mistake this for being anything more than it is, Commander. We were hardly friends before we started sleeping together. So unless you're here for a pity fuck, I'd suggest returning to your tower while I find someone else to indulge me.”

 

He wields his words more viciously than any offensive spell, as cutting in their delivery as they are in meaning. He sees the flash of pain on Cullen's face and knows that he's hit his mark, a clammy, cold wave numbing him as he attempts to shove past the ex-templar blocking his doorway. But the Commander is a stubborn wall, arms folded over his chest, somehow managing to stare down Dorian, despite both standing at about the same height.

 

“You need to rest. You're in no state to walk, let alone find a more agreeable bed mate.”

 

He keeps a level of control in his voice that almost impresses Dorian. But the mage can hear the break, the crack that tells him he's left a bleeding wound.

 

Fereldans are no more equipped at masking their feelings than a Tevinter at handling one of those southern, smelly hounds.

 

“Step aside, Cullen.”

 

The use of the man's first name, only ever uttered by Dorian at the height of their intimacy, is like another strike against the Fereldan. But his expression remains grim, scarred lips pressed in a firm line.  
  


“You're drunk and upset.”

 

“Pointing out the obvious? And to think, I dare believed you'd have something clever to add.”

 

“I...am more than aware that my careless scrutiny may have brought this about. I shouldn't have pried, Dorian. Anything you have to say to me now is less than I deserve.”

 

It takes Dorian by surprise, so much so that when he feels a stinging at the back of his eyes, he can no longer convince himself that the dizzying blur of the room is the result of alcohol alone.

 

He draws his eyes down to his shaking hands, blinks rapidly, a plethora of cruel words racing through his mind. But he can't bring himself to say them, to chase away the ex-templar so consumed by his own guilt at having reminded the mage of his dead soulmate, he was willing to accept whatever abuse the Tevinter flung at him.

 

He tries to speak, but the sound he makes is not quite a sob but guts Dorian with the same ferocity of one. The blood on his hands...Rilienus's. In his head, he hears his guttural cries, feels the ripping of his soul, the burning of an all consuming hellfire, as the light leaves Rilienus' dark eyes.

 

His knees buckle and he realizes belatedly that he is kneeling on the ground, shaking, hideous fur tickling his cheeks. A pair of strong arms are gripping him tightly but Dorian is reliving the worst moment of his life.

 

“I-I c-couldn't...” Dorian mumbles, broken.

 

He cracks.

 

Any other man would have taken what he could while Dorian left himself vulnerable. Other men have. But Cullen?

 

Cullen holds him through the night.

 

*

 

Dorian doesn't bed other men.

 

He knows he should make a public show of taking other men to his quarters, if not to quiet the growing rumors of his connection to the Inquisition's Commander, then to at least make it clear that their continuing indulgence didn't go beyond mutual sexual gratification. But it becomes harder to ignore the flutter in his chest whenever Cullen would so much as glance at the mage, a gentle smile on his scarred lips, hint of pink filling his cheeks. When duty had him running from the War Room to his tower, too busy to exchange more than a quick greeting, the Fereldan always makes up for it later by pressing chaste kisses to Dorian's skin, worshipping him, devoting himself to making the mage come undone slowly and completely, the Commander's name the only sound Dorian finds himself able to make in the darkness of the loft.

 

And when both are spent, sweat drying on their skin, a tangle of limbs and mussed hair, breaths beginning to even out as the late night crawls towards the approaching dawn, Dorian knows he should leave. He should remove himself from the warmth of Cullen's embrace, slip hastily into his embellished leathers, and make the trip across the ramparts to the comfort of his room, before furthering the salacious gossip that's spread among the recruits.

 

He knows he should but he never does.

 

*

 

“My father did it.”

 

The admission makes his voice catch, eyes blinking to chase the prickling at the corner of his lids. He feels the heavy slide of a tear that makes its escape, makes no effort to swipe at the wet trail it leaves as it's too late to pretend he is not still haunted by his past.

 

He's been dead for so long, he's almost forgotten what it means to _feel._

 

A large thumb swipes away the offending blemish, a gentle hand coming to rest on the mage's cheek. Dorian turns to face the man lying beside him, voice shaking, as he fights for composure, carrying on with the anger and pain he's buried for so long.

 

“He _knew_ ,” Dorian whispers. “And it wasn't enough to send a gang of mercenaries to retrieve the disgraced heir of House Pavus. No, Magister Halward Pavus needed to ensure that his scion had no reason to stray again. So, he had Rilienus murdered.”

 

Hearing those words out loud made it real in a way that it hadn't felt in a long time.

 

“We should have left Tevinter. We should have...”

 

But there's no more fight in him.

 

Cullen is quiet throughout his admission but through the bleary haze of sorrow, Dorian catches the many emotions that flitter across the ex-templar's face: its the same anger and sorrow that ripples in his chest whenever the mage finds himself drawn back to memories of his dead lover, fondness that has long since soured to a bitter pain he doesn't know quite how to to mend.

 

Cullen doesn't have to say anything. He keeps Dorian in his arms, wipes the other tears that spill, the tender kiss he presses to the mage's forehead a promise that doesn't need to be uttered, one that Dorian just _knows._

 

_You're safe here._

 

When the Commander finally says something, it's two words. A string of syllables that hold more meaning than anything else anyone's ever said to him.

 

“Never again.”

 

And Dorian knows Cullen means it.

 

*

 

The next time they fight—really fight, with words flung as hastily at one another with the precision of a rogue's dagger—is also the first time they make love.

 

It isn't what Dorian intends while he paces heavily across the Commander's office, each step fanning the ire that has steadily been building since Adamant. Lavellan had left him and Vivienne behind, arguing that they would be of more use assisting in the ongoing research at Skyhold, and no amount of pleading (not that Dorian had resorted to actual _begging._ He's a Pavus, for Maker's sake _)_ had changed her mind.

 

So, when a message had arrived informing the occupants of Skyhold that the returning army would be delayed “some weeks” until the injured were well enough to travel, the mage thought, more out of indignation than borne of any real concern, how such could have been avoided if Lavellan had brought him along. Their Inquisitor had taken to resting long hours in the day but this was assumed to be a result of her time in the Fade and the toll it took on her, seeing as she remains without injury. So Dorian thinks little of it.

 

But then, there's this inkling. Small at first, tickling at the back of his head. A whisper whose voice becomes ever persistent as the rumors spread and talk among those waiting for their loved ones return shifts to complaints of a 'bed-ridden Commander unfit to make the journey back'.

 

The day Josephine handed him a letter with the Commander's seal, Dorian knows.

 

_D,_

 

_We shall be returning in a fortnight._

 

_C.S.R_

 

Unlike the usual, messy scrawl the mage had become familiar with, Cullen's patience for writing legible script as thin as Cassandra's tolerance of their beloved dwarven storyteller, the lettering was written with an effort borne of a hand unpracticed and Dorian knew, perhaps better than anyone else, that the Commander is many things but ambidextrous is not one of them.

 

And that is when Dorian begins to seethe with rage.

 

“Nearly three months since you departed for Adamant,” Dorian hisses, tone brittle. He points an accusatory finger in Cullen's direction, “And all I get are seven. Fucking. Words.”

 

Cullen stands in the door to his office, fur-trimmed mantle looking heavier on his shoulders. He's exhausted and not just travel-weary, face thinner than the mage remembers. Sweat builds on his forehead, exertion that's never been present in the time it takes for the Commander to walk from the War Room to his tower, and he wipes at it to hide the evidence of his weakness. But it's there in the bandaged arm the Fereldan fails to hide beneath his cloak, in the limp in his step as he comes into his office, nodding for the sentry to shut the door behind him.

 

Dorian's pissed. And Cullen? He's as angry as the mage is, if the sudden scowl on his lips is anything to go by.

 

“I must apologize, Ser Pavus. It seems I have violated the protocol for not 'mistaking this to be anything more than it is,'” Cullen replies, his sarcasm striking an already taut nerve in the mage. “I thought a forewarning of my return would suffice.”

 

“You thought _this_ would suffice?”

 

The vellum Dorian holds in his other hand, already worn from the numerous times he has unfolded and reread the offending words, bursts into flame. It gives him a mild sense of satisfaction to see the Commander visibly flinch.

 

“You could have been— _fasta vass,_ you almost were killed—and all you had to say was you'll be returning? What purpose could such a useless message hold in that thick skull of yours!”

 

“Is this really the time to do this?” Cullen said, trying to keep his voice level. “There are reports that need to be read and—”

 

“You've been back only a handful of hours. I'm sure your bloody reports can wait another damned five minutes!” the mage snapped, positioning himself between the Commander and his desk.

 

“What is there to say, Dorian? You've made what you wanted clear. I wasn't—I didn't—Maker, I couldn't even be sure you wanted to continue this after being gone as long as I have.”

 

It startles the mage to see the uncertainty on Cullen's face, the hesitation. There's more but the Fereldan holds back, cheeks coloring. It does little to deflate the Tevinter, despite the truth in all that the Commander is saying.

 

“ _Vishante kaffas,_ you southerners are softer in the head than you look!” Dorian says, his tone scathing. “What makes you think I wouldn't—”

 

“Nearly three months since I departed for Adamant,” Cullen replies, throwing the mage's words back at him. “And all I get are zero. Fucking. Words.”

 

…well. _Shit._

 

For perhaps the only time in his life, Dorian is humiliated to the point of speechlessness. But he uses that moment of humility to let Cullen's words sink deep, burrow into the part of himself he's failed to ignore, the growing affection he's promised himself is nothing more than a passing interest for a pretty face, and admits what he's known since that first night they laid together.

 

He loves Cullen.

 

 _No._ _Not again. I can't—_

 

He tries to silence that hesitation but there's that _panic_ because he knows what comes next and yet he's too exhausted to keep running from what's in front of him.

 

The Commander's legs are unsteady. Dorian sees how the Fereldan struggles to stay upright. It's all the excuse he needs to taken him into his arms, grip firm and yet careful to avoid putting any pressure on Cullen's injured shoulder.

 

Holding him feels _right_ in the same way that Rilienus had always felt right.

 

“You _idiot_ ,” he tries to say. His hands are shaking as he buries them in Cullen's cloak, pulls the man tighter into his embrace. “You foolish, senseless idiot.”

 

It's not _I love you._

 

Dorian will never say it. He refuses to say it.

 

“I've missed you,” the Commander whispers quietly, burying his face in the mage's neck.

 

Dorian's trembling. He knows he is. But he can't stop.

 

“I've missed you, too, Amatus.”

 

It takes some time to help Cullen up the ladder. In fact, Dorian almost insists on bringing the Commander back to his room, all of Skyhold be damned if they see the pair together in the early evening make the trip across the ramparts, but the Commander is stubborn in wanting his own bed after so many weeks away. And, a more selfish part of the mage, is also aware of how much he's missed the drafty familiarity of the loft, even if its colder than death when not stealing warmth from his bedmate.

 

It's somewhere in the middle of helping the Commander remove his left vambrace that the Fereldan shyly leans in, kisses Dorian chastely, and makes the ache in the Tevinter's chest burst with a need for _more._ Hands find clasps that hold together armor, pieces pulled and left to clatter noisily to the wooden floorboards as Dorian steals more kisses, hands careful but itching to grasp at the flesh he's been denied for months, the skin he yearns to cover in healing caresses as he exposes it, sees the fading bruises peeking around the bandages across the Commander's chest.

 

As Cullen lays beneath Dorian, both naked, bodies pressed close to share warmth and to simply _feel_ one another, the mage is only too aware of how hot his desire for the Fereldan burns but is also too hesitant to do anything that would inflame the wounds already inflicted on the Commander's flesh.

 

“Dorian,” Cullen says, gazing up at his lover, running a knuckle along the mage's jawline.

 

There's a plea in his voice, a heat in those honey-brown eyes.

 

The mage knows what he's asking, reaches over to the oil in the night stand.

 

His hesitation is assuaged only because he refuses to hurt Cullen and is unable to deny his Amatus anything when his cock is full and pressed to Dorian's thigh.

 

They make love.

 

It's everything Dorian remembers lovemaking to be. And somehow, so much more.

 

*

 

“I don't care about soulmarks,” Cullen whispers, pressing a kiss to the back of Dorian's shoulder.

 

Dorian tenses because he knows Fereldans, knows how they romanticize and spend their lifetime eagerly seeking their match. He tenses because he knows that for as good as this is –what they have—deep down, Cullen wants to be with the one who bears the same mark as him.

 

But there's an earnestness to those words that the mage so desperately wishes he could delude himself into accepting, a sense of completion whenever he's in Cullen's arms that makes him want to _hope_.

 

Dorian's no longer that naive but maybe, for just a moment, he can indulge such fancy.

 

“And what if you meet your match tomorrow?” he challenges, his nonchalance as fake to his ears as it is on his tongue.

 

There's a waver in his voice, fear that makes his chest constrict with ice cold fear as he draws his next breath, clinging to a silence he's uncertain he wants broken.

 

But perhaps its the threat of tension that creeps into the comfortable rhythm they've found, where their responsibilities and the threat of Corypheus is as lost to them as physical space when Cullen's holding him close. For the ex-templar's answer is swift, his arms tightening around the mage, chin resting in the crook where Dorian's shoulder meets his neck.

 

“Then I'll let them know the Maker chose wrong when He gave me my mark,” the Commander says, with a certainty that makes Dorian's heart flutter.

 

It's perhaps the most blasphemous thing the devout man has ever said, willing to defy the Maker's will branded into his flesh. All for a disgraced Tevinter mage, whose one chance at remaining with his soulmate had been forcefully taken from him.

 

Dorian feels a tightness in his throat, has to pause, swallow hard, blink away the mist in his eyes that turns the Fereldan's loft into a blurry haze of shadow. He knows he shouldn't press so instead, he hides behind his glib tongue, aiming for mirth that stopped being convincing the moment Cullen made his confession.

 

“It is rather Orlesian looking.”

 

That earns him a groan from Cullen. “Bran and Mia used to tease me endlessly about that. But it's not Orlesian; it's the symbol of the Chantry.”

 

“A symbol that happens to adorn every gaudy item of make from your western neighbors.”

 

“Must you remind me?”

 

“I am an encyclopedia of superfluous knowledge, here to dazzle and educate you southern barbarians,” Dorian muses.

 

“How fortunate I am,” Cullen adds, dryly. But there's a waver in his comment, of barely concealed mirth. “Any other knowledge you wish to impart, Master Pavus?”

 

“On the subject of your predilection for everything Orlesian: you know what else is typically associated with Orlais? Lion heraldry.”

 

The mock offense in the Fereldan's voice has Dorian grinning. “Well, someone really wants to sleep downstairs.”

 

“On that chair stacked with books? I'd ask you to be a gentleman and put those away first, if you're going to give into your brutish nature and ban me from your bed.”

 

“They're your books!”

 

“I don't make the rules, Amatus. I just state them.”

 

Cullen's laughing so hard into Dorian's neck that his entire body shakes. It's all nonsense and the mage is quite fluent in it, using the deflection to avoid committing the Commander to a promise he would never be able to keep. Talk of soulmarks still makes Dorian uncomfortable since he knows that their tryst will only continue for as long as Cullen's match remains unmet.

 

When his laughter has died down, and a comfortable lull overtakes the air between them, Cullen's hand slides up the mage's chest, stopping to rest over Dorian's heart. The gesture alone is enough to have the Tevinter's pulse pick up, lips tickling his jawline as they seek a path towards his neglected earlobe. The Commander's voice is husky but not without fervor.

 

“I still stand by what I said.”

 

And that is almost enough to make Dorian doubt that this would have to come to an end.

 

“As lovely as that sentiment is, Commander,” the mage says, attempting to play it coyly. “I don't think the Maker would appreciate you questioning his judgment.”

 

He regrets his facetiousness as the commander pulls away, his warmth no longer protecting against the chilled air that tickles against Dorian's exposed backside. He shivers as the bed shifts, about to say something—an apology, another deflection...he's not quite sure—when a warm thigh finds its way between his own, and suddenly, his back is to the mattress, Cullen is looking down at him, and honeyed eyes are filled with an affection the mage knows should not be meant for him. But the Commander is nothing if not steadfast when he has set his mind to something, and Dorian's heart races treacherously as gentle fingers caress his cheek.

 

“I don't care for the Maker's judgment,” Cullen says, quietly. “I want _you,_ Dorian.”

 

It's a confession uttered with a fierce certainty that Dorian wishes he could match. He wants to believe but he has seen what becomes of those who remain together despite bearing different marks. His own parents were such, the years making them become ever more vicious and resentful until all that remained was blind hatred and cold pleasantries when civility required they maintain a cordial facade.

 

Even if Cullen and Dorian care for each other in a way that his parents never had, how long would that affection remain if the worst were to happen and Dorian allows Cullen to choose him over his match?

 

So the mage entertains the Commander's declaration with a watery smile. For as wonderful as it would be, he knows better but has no desire to hurt Cullen's feelings.

 

“I want you too, Amatus. Blast these bloody soulmarks,” he says.

 

He doesn't believe it but he still accepts Cullen's fevered kiss, moans and whimpers as they make love, and settles into Cullen's arms long after the candles have died and he can no longer combat the lull of sleep.

 

He may not believe but he can at least take what Cullen offers...for as long as the Commander would have him.

 

*

 

It's in Emprise du Lion that everything changes.

 

Dorian hates the cold, is already in a mood fouler than a bear awoken early from its hibernation and ready to inflict its ire on the poor mage dragged into its den by a careless Inquisitor who was most lacking in self-preservation (“Ooh, drakestone!” “ _Fasta vass,_ you better not be expecting me to carry _ALL_ of that!” “Oi, prissy robes, behind you!” “... _VENHEDIS, NOT AGAIN!_ ”). Days of running all across the area, defeating red templars and ridding a local fort of its resident desire demon, has left the mage desperate for a hot bath and a warm body to steal heat from and as time passes, he finds that where once he was troubled at how frequently his thoughts would turn to a certain Commander, he now welcomes the warm memory of the man and grows ever more bitter at being away from Skyhold.

 

That is, until one fateful day when Dorian finds himself playing resident healer to their little merry band.

 

Miles from the nearest Inquisition outpost, the Tevinter bites back his complaints as snow soaks through his trousers, instead, aiming his foul mood at reprimanding his best friend. Pushing back the torn fabric, he clucks his tongue as he sees the edge of a bloody claw mark on her abdomen.

 

“Charging headfirst at that thing? What had you been planning? To headbutt it into submission? You've been spending far too much time with the Iron Bull.”

 

“Stop fussing, Dorian. It's just a scratch!”

 

“ _Scratches_ don't tear into quillback leather,” Dorian complains, moving the fabric up further to expose more of the wound. “You're an _archer_ and about as good with your short sword as Blackwall is with a bow.”

 

“I hunt game as fine as any one o' you lot!” Blackwall says gruffly.

 

“Pfft, ye can't tell the arse-end of an arrow from its pointy bit,” Sera remarks, her derisive snort only making the grey warden glare.

 

“Slap some poultice on it and it'll be fine,” Lavellan says, fidgeting impatiently.

 

“Slap some poultice on it? Do I look like I'm carrying a variety of healing paraphernalia for every time you decide to poke a bear with your sharp stick?”

 

“Sword,” Lavellan corrects.

 

“What you carry is hardly a sword.”

 

“It's not the size 'o the blade, it's how you wield it,” Blackwall chimes in.

 

“Thank you, Blackwall.”

 

“Please don't encourage her,” Dorian sighs. “I swear, there's no living with either of you.”

 

Lavellan winces as Dorian follows through with her request, spreading the poultice over the cut. He hears her utter some Dalish curse and his lip curls in bemusement, another quip sitting on the tip of his tongue. But then something catches his eye, yellow flames etched into her dark flesh, and the familiarity of the symbol has his entire world come to a crashing halt.

 

As if the air was knocked from his lungs, he struggles to draw breath, a tightness winding in his chest.

 

“It's rather Orlesian looking, isn't it?” Lavellan says of her soulmark.

 

Dorian feels as if he's going to be sick.

 

*

 

He keeps to himself those first few days back at Skyhold. He knows every corridor of the keep like the back of his hand and uses it to his advantage. Each time he catches a glimpse of a fur-lined mantle, he ducks into a side passage, burying the panic of what's to come next with his evasive behavior. He knows how this ends, knew their ending has always been written in another's flesh, placed there by the Maker himself.

 

But...does it have to come this soon?

 

Perhaps, it's easier to tell himself he's simply _busy._

 

It doesn't calm the dread that's been festering in his chest since Dorian learned Lavellan bears the same mark as Cullen.

 

Eventually, the Commander catches on. By now, he can read all the mage's tells, knows that _busy_ in Dorian-speak is _I'm-too-afraid-to-say-what-needs-to-be-said._ And as always, he knows where to find his lover, knows Dorian's schedule as well as Dorian has learned his.

 

It's on a rather unseasonably warm evening that the Tevinter mage returns to his quarters, only to find the Commander standing nervously by his door, clad in lighter attire, shifting his weight between his feet.

 

Dorian pauses, too far down the corridor to turn back but too afraid to take another step forward. So startled by the ex-templar's appearance, his book clatters to the floor.

 

“Forgive me. I-I know you said in your last message you've been busy,” Cullen starts, bending to retrieve the mage's tome.

 

Their fingers brush as he hands it to Dorian and the mage feels that heavy constricting in his chest, a weight that's sat there in the month since seeing the Inquisitor's mark.

 

“I—thank you,” he says, quietly.

 

There's a dissonance in his voice, almost foreign to his own ears. The sadness in Cullen's eyes pulls at the mage, like a vicious tearing into an already bleeding wound, and Dorian can't look at the man as he tucks his book into his satchel.

 

The silence stretches.

 

He hears, more than sees, the Commander begin to rub the back of his neck, seeking the words that won't come.

 

_Don't make me say it._

 

It's a plea that goes unvoiced, unable to chase the need for the one conversation he has been hoping to avoid. It's one thing to know what must be done but another to commit such cruel words to his tongue. And as much as all logic is telling him this is how it has to be, he knows that when he says it, it will break him.

 

“It's...over, isn't it?”

 

It's more question than statement, laced with hope he knows not to indulge. He thought he wanted Cullen to be the one to say it but, somehow, hearing it come from someone else makes it that much worse.

 

“We had our fun, didn't we?” Dorian answers, forced smile feeling brittle on his lips.

 

He's good at maintaining his facade, when he doesn't have alcohol to impair his performance. Yet, for all the nonchalance he exudes, he's crumbling on the inside, a pain that begins low and prickles up his spine until he must force a laugh to keep any sound he utters from construing into a sob. His parents failed in many things but never in how they taught him the art of not ever revealing he gives a fuck.

 

“Best not ruin a good thing and pretend it was ever about something as pesky as _feelings_.”

 

And that...that seems to be the _wrong_ thing to say. For a brief moment, Cullen's face crumples and it _hurts_ to look at him, moreso because Dorian knows he's the cause.

 

“It was never just fun for me, Dorian.”

 

 _Fasta vass,_ even the way the ex-templar says his name makes the ache inside of him ripple and fester with renewed vigor.

 

But Dorian knows how this is, has been around enough men to know what happens when he gets between them and their soulmate. How many of his flings have ended prematurely after the men he bedded met their match? And given the growing friendship between Cullen and Lavellan, it's only a given that at some point, they'll realize they belong together.

 

And Dorian can't risk getting any more invested than he already is.

 

“Is this because we have different marks?” the Fereldan asks.

 

Cullen grasps the mage's hand between his, his larger hands sending a warm, bittersweet trill across Dorian's skin. And in that moment, he _yearns_ for the Commander more than he's ever yearned for anyone, misses how _right_ this feels and how _wrong_ it is to cast aside the unconditional affection he has been given.

 

_I love you._

 

_Je t'aime._

 

_Te amo._

 

Yet no tongue he speaks will ever do justice to what he feels in that moment—to what he feels every time he's been with Cullen.

 

“I told you, it doesn't matter. None of that does.”

 

There's fervor to his declaration, desperation that should have sounded pathetic but only welcomes the prickle of tears Dorian refuses to shed. He doesn't say anything.

 

“You— _us,_ ” Cullen continues. “This is all I need.”

 

The mage wants to believe but experience has taught him otherwise.

 

“Dorian, please—”

 

“I've made my choice,” Dorian says, with a finality the Commander can't question.

 

It hurts to rip his hand away, the loss of contact the final severing of the tie that binds them. His hands drop coldly to his side, cool glint in his eyes. He acts more irate than he feels because showing any of his cracks will leave him open to being shattered more than he already is.

 

He almost wishes that Cullen would fight, would say the only words that will make him stay. Because, as much as it will hurt later, Dorian's a fool for the man.

 

But he hears the reluctant acceptance in the Commander's voice as the Fereldan bows his head, perhaps to save himself from further humiliation.

 

“I...understand.”

 

The quiver in his voice is buried beneath the next words forced from his scarred lips.

 

“I bid you a good evening, Ser Pavus.”

 

Dorian can't watch him as he walks away, head bowed, gait unsteady. Perhaps he utters something similarly pleasant and lacking any sincerity but it's hard to hear himself when the numbness that begins in his chest spreads until he feels he is not the one walking to his room but watching through the eyes of a stranger, whose pain can't possibly be his.

 

Once inside, the door locked, satchel tossed somewhere in the middle of his organized chaos, he sits numbly on the bed, hand ghosting over his covered arm. A ghost sensation, a stinging, as if his cursed mark was trying to burn through his clothing.

 

In a fit of anger, he scorches the fabric, doesn't hiss as the heat on his palm burns the skin of his arm. The smell of burnt leather is an affront on his senses but all he does is tear at the sleeve, unable to see where he ends up discarding it through his blurred vision.

 

The flesh on his arm has already begun to blister.

 

Good.

 

He hopes it scars.

 

*

 

It hurts to watch them, the laughter that cuts across the hall, the warmth in the smiles they exchange.

 

The Inquisitor and her Commander.

 

It was always inevitable.

 

And yet...

 

Dorian still dreams of nights bathed in his warmth, arms that held him close, the mingling of their breaths in time with the pulse racing in his chest. He dreams of lips forever marked by a blade pressing against his skin, soft sighs and whispered words that mean nothing and everything in the moments they're uttered. Dorian dreams...because dreaming is the only way he'll once again be close to Cullen.

 

If he ever catches the Commander's eye, there's always an unguarded sorrow that flickers over the Fereldan's face before he remembers himself and nods politely, empty platitude spilling to fill the awkward space between them. Dorian doesn't dwell on it, knows that any serious mulling over why this is so difficult will only lead him to the bottle to drown his regrets before they consume him.

 

This is how it's supposed to be.

 

...isn't it?

 

 

 


	2. Heartless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen struggles to move on as the Inquisition prepares for Halamshiral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, a big thank you to everyone who read and commented on the first chapter of Mismatched. I wasn't expecting to get the response that I had and it is really because of all of you that I decided to continue this story. Thank you so much for your support and I hope you enjoy this chapter (and feel free to eviscerate me in the comments if this breaks your heart).

The first night is the worst. A numbness that bursts in his chest, a cold wave that pulls him under each time Dorian's words echo in his head. There are many times he feels an almost vice-like compression on his lungs, has to put down the report that stopped providing any distraction the moment he started reading it, draws a shaking breath, and drops his head in his hand, wondering why he let himself fall as hard as he had.

 

Dorian never made his detachment a secret. He guards his true feelings behind calculated grins and flirtatious banter and it often felt that without the aid of alcohol, Cullen only saw a projection of what the mage wants the world to see.

 

Yet, there had been moments where, despite everything that dictated how it shouldn't _work_ , the Fereldan believed maybe it could. Ignore fate written into his flesh, overcome his prejudices of Tevinter, and he came face-to-face with a man who was more than a well-timed remark.

 

Dorian, who would scoff at the tacky fur cloak Cullen wore but get this warm look in his eyes whenever the Fereldan wrapped it around his shoulders.

 

Dorian, who was too glib for his own good, but drops his guard in moments of quiet intimacy and revealed parts of himself very few get to see.

 

Dorian, who, fool that he is, Cullen loves.

 

But Cullen had been wrong. Time and distance made Dorian lose interest and to cling to unrequited attachment would only pull the Commander into a further state of humiliation, a distraction the Inquisition cannot afford.

 

With the candles low, flickering weakly in the cool draft within the office, Cullen arises from his desk and makes his way to the armor stand. He removes each piece carefully, stopping only once in his nightly ritual when he feels pain shooting up his neck.

 

He feels an on-coming headache, a soreness that overtakes him, makes the climb up to his bed more excruciating. Once he gets beneath the covers, he settles wearily beneath the thin cloth, the loft feeling infinitely colder without Dorian there to tease him, or complain, or curl up next to him as he muttered about Southern barbarians.

 

It _hurts_. Maker, does it hurt.

 

And all he has to greet him every night from now is the emptiness of his bed.

 

*

 

Honnleath is a haven that, throughout most of the chaos of the past decade, remains sheltered from the evils plaguing Thedas. Tucked in the southwest corner of Ferelden, its a quiet gem of rural life, with folk set in their ways but always hospitable to the friendly faces who venture along the dusty road that circles the town's center.

 

Cullen remembers Honnleath well, still feels an ache in his chest at the first fall of snow every winter as he thought of evenings tucked around the fire, Mia's hands turning the pages of one of the few books they owned as she read aloud to her younger siblings. His mother mending the tears in clothing, his father braiding Rosalie's hair before bed (she always insisted he was better at it than either Mia or their mother). It was an unchanging picture, Cullen's last memory of his family, of the happiness they had always found in the harshness of winter. All he had to do was close his eyes and he could still smell the pork stew cooking over the hearth, hear Branson and Rosalie bicker for the sake of bickering, and his mother give up scolding either child with a muttered, “Maker, preserve me.”

 

Most of all, he remembers the mark on his mother's wrist. As a toddler, he had been curious, wondering why both his mother and father bore a waning moon on opposite wrists over a series of small, freckle-like dots representing the stars.

 

“The Maker gave this to me so your Papa could find me,” his mother had said.

 

And his father had enveloped his larger hand over his mother's, calloused thumb brushing fondly at her soulmark. Cullen still remembers the look they had exchanged, the deep affection in their eyes, and he knew that he wanted that for himself.

 

Someday, he will find her. And when he does, nothing will stop them from being together.

 

*

 

In the weeks following their break up, Cullen is grateful for the Inquisitor. At first, he's relieved that she insists on taking Dorian with her outside of Skyhold, task that sees them off to the Hinterlands, and he can feel more at ease leaving his tower knowing there's no chance of a surprise run-in with his ex-lover. There's only so many empty platitudes he can deliver, so many times he can feel blood rise in his cheeks when his voice wavers and he has to look away from the careful, scrutinizing look he receives from the mage.

 

Eventually, he comes to appreciate Lavellan pulling him away from his work. Chess games with Dorian had once served that purpose but without the mage clucking at him and distracting him with that tongue of his (both verbally and sometimes, literally), Cullen's found no reason to put down a report and take a much needed break.

 

“I have it on questionable authority that I'm a 'complete and utter' embarrassment when it comes to my sword play,” Lavellan announces and Cullen doesn't have to think long on which of her beloved companions would make such a comment. “Care to teach me?”

 

“Why not ask Cassandra?” is his immediate reply.

 

He doesn't look up from message he's penning but his hand pauses, something shifting inside of him, a warmth spreading from the ginger touch of her small fingers on his wrist. He digs the quill too deeply into the vellum, blotting the word he had been writing.

 

“I'm asking you. Unless...the Commander of the Inquisition is too busy to offer private lessons to its Inquisitor?”

 

It's said lightly, like an offhand remark, but Cullen's a man of authority, who respects rank before personal comfort. What may sound like a request to her is a command to his ears and who is he to question the woman he has sworn to follow?

 

That's how it begins. A session every now and then, Cullen offering her pointers on how to defend herself with a short sword, should she ever find herself forced to engage in close-range combat. But as their blades clash, sweat trickles down their faces, and Lavellan gives him that cheeky grin that had once made his stomach flip, Cullen can no longer pretend that there hasn't always been something there, something that's felt _right_ and he starts to think that maybe, he can get through this.

 

*

 

It's only a day or so after their return from Redcliff that Cullen sees Dorian for the first time in weeks.

 

He's with Lavellan in the Great Hall, laughing at a remark she's made about trying to convince Cassandra to wear a dress at the Winter Palace, when the Dalish woman's hand finds its way on his arm. He's in full armor yet his pulse picks up, skin tingling as if she's running her fingers over his bare flesh, and he feels that _pull,_ that desire for _more_ that's taken him by surprise on more than one occasion now.

 

There's a look they exchange, a gentleness in her eyes that makes his cheeks heat and he's babbling before he's opened his mouth, the sound he makes not quite a word and he can't help but wonder if there was ever an end to his interest or if it had only remained dormant when he had someone else in his bed.

 

An uncomfortable cough has him breaking the contact, face beet-red, stepping back lest onlookers read more into the invasion of personal space than what is actually there. But the grin he was struggling to hide already fades when he sees the tired—somewhat irate—look on Dorian's face.

 

“I take it I've missed the War Council meeting.”

 

Though carefully cleaned up, appearance as impeccable as ever, Cullen is intimate enough with the mage to know Dorian hasn't been sleeping well. No amount of vanity creams can hide the dark circles beneath his eyes, the grim pull of his lips, or the listless gaze he regards both of them with. The Tevinter may have his masks but Cullen can on occasion catch a glimpse beneath, even when Dorian tries his damnedest to appear impassive.

 

“It seems you forget yourself, Lord Pavus,” Cullen says, near surprising himself at the cool tone he employs. “Being a member of the Inner Circle doesn't excuse you from partaking in meetings when called upon.”

 

“Cullen,” Lavellan tries to warn but it's already too late.

 

The words are out there: harsh, critical, unforgiving.

 

If they sting, Dorian doesn't show it.

 

“How careless of me,” he replies, sounding as infuriatingly bored as ever, “I had assumed my role in your decision-making so inconsequential, I let time get away from me. I've wasted far too much of my day researching the simplest of histories in that abysmal collection of books we have in our library. A shame no one thought to propose pooling our resources into a research tower instead of that Maker-awful templar hold.”

 

The biting sarcasm strikes a nerve in Cullen, one that makes what little empathy he has for the mage dissipate. The deciding vote had come from the Inquisitor but it was one the Commander had pushed for, hoping that the tower would attract more templars to the Inquisition's cause and away from Samson and Corypheus.

 

“That tower is as necessary to our cause as—”

 

“Commander!”

 

The sharpness in her tone has the Commander cutting off his retort, scowl forming on his lips. There's disapproval on Lavellan's face and he has a sneaking suspicion that it's almost directed entirely at him, despite Dorian being the one to rile him up.

 

“Now's not the time for ideological disagreements,” she adds, turning her attention to Dorian. “You were saying, Dorian?”

 

“Anything I should be aware of? You're not about to drag me off to the bloody Hissing Wastes again to play nice with the wyverns, are you?”

 

The mage very obviously shifts his posture, pointedly ignoring Cullen's presence. It makes the Commander inwardly seethe.

 

Cullen has a response to the open disdain Dorian shows, a _you'll go damn well wherever the Inquisitor sends you_ but the Inquisitor casts one last look of warning his way, and he knows best to hold his tongue.

 

“You'll be fitted shortly for attire to attend Empress Celene's ball next month,” Lavellan answers. “Congratulations. You are one of the illustrious few selected to represent the Inquisition and help thwart a potential assassination attempt against one of Thedas most influential political figures.”

 

“It's like any other night I spent in Minrathous,” Dorian says. “And here I was thinking I was starting to miss how we did things back home.”

 

“Oh, and you must make sure I don't make a complete arse of myself with my untamed, Dalish ways. Josephine and Leliana have offered to teach me about courtly etiquette but I'm sure you'll have a lot to add on the subject.”

 

Dorian preens a little, a slight quirk in his lips that softens the sharp edge in his cool expression. “Naturally. Though I would be remiss if I feigned disinterest in encouraging your wily ways. A little bit of chaos would make for a more entertaining evening than indulging the whims of the pompous elite with their frivolous games. May I suggest arriving in full Dalish regalia on a halla? And a mid-evening, drunken-rant on 'thieving shems'? That'll have the tongues wagging.”

 

“You know if you tempt me, I'll do it,” Lavellan says, with a smirk. “And Josephine will murder us both.”

 

“An Inquisition sans its Inquisitor? Can't have that,” Dorian says. “Think of the gossip.”

 

“I'm concerned more with what this means for the hole in the sky if we fail to gain Orlais' support,” the Inquisitor adds. “Josephine will send you a summary of our itinerary and a schedule for your fitting.”

 

“I will have to extend my thanks to the Lady Montilyet.” The little mirth he had expressed was gone, replaced with humility that makes him appear less severe. Cullen, who has remained silent, sees something of sadness in the mage's eyes. “I...also must apologize for having failed to arrive at the meeting. I will avoid such carelessness in the future, if only to not deprive our advisers of my handsome self the next time we debate such matters as ballroom attire.”

 

Cullen is ready to make a reply but is cut off by Lavellan. “It's perfectly alright, Dorian.”

 

_It isn't_ , the Commander wants to stubbornly say.

 

“Commander,” Dorian nods coolly, as he turns on his heel and heads towards the library.

 

Both of them watch as he departs, wait until he's well out of earshot. Just as Cullen is certain any complaint he has to make, derived from the bitterness of hurt feelings he refuses to acknowledge, cannot be overheard, Lavellan glares up at him, arms folded over her chest.

 

“I understand that things have not been easy between you two,” she begins. “But I would ask that you exercise more empathy next time you address Dorian.”

 

Cullen's never spoken about his relationship to the mage with her. In fact, he's shocked she has any inkling of there being a connection between them. But beyond shock, he's irate that she seems to be siding with the mage without knowing the entirety of the situation.

 

_He left me,_ he wants to argue but knows it will only make him sound as petty as he feels.

 

“What makes you think there's anything between us?” he asks instead.

 

He sounds so defensive, it makes him inwardly cringe.

 

“It doesn't take a spymaster to connect the dots,” Lavellan answers, looking pointedly at the Commander. “Creators, even Blackwall figured it out.”

 

Discretion had been more of a priority for Dorian, though Cullen had also done his best to avoid any unwarranted attention. But if Blackwall, who cares little for gossip or the personal affairs of his companions, can make the connection...

 

He deflates, knowing there's no reason denying it.

 

“Whatever was between us is in the past,” Cullen says. “Yet if Dorian is going to use my presence to skip _mandatory_ war council meetings—”

 

“You give him far too little credit if you believe Dorian would be so petty.”

 

He doesn't know why it annoys him that she's so defensive of the mage.

 

“Look, it's not my place to say anything.” There's a pause, hesitation. He sees the conflict in the pull of her lips, the flicking of her gaze that drops to regard the stone beneath their feet. After a long moment, she says, in a hushed voice, “Our last visit to Redcliff didn't go so well for Dorian. Whatever was—or remains—between you, I suggest putting that aside for now. At least until he's had a few days to clear his head.”

 

It should have been obvious. Up to this point, Dorian's acted civilly when forced to acknowledge Cullen's presence, never lingering long enough for the awkward silences to stretch or letting scorn dictate the course of any words he shared with the Commander. But Cullen knows that when Dorian, who thrives on attention, is avoiding people, it's because he's fighting his own internal battles.

 

“Understood, Inquisitor.”

 

He excuses himself shortly after agreeing to another sparring session, intent on heading straight to his tower. But once he passes through the side door exiting the Great Hall, his eyes linger to the set of stairs leading up to the library.

 

He shouldn't. There's more potential for making things worse than making them better.

 

And no matter what Cullen tells himself, he knows he's not over Dorian.

 

He buries the dread that makes his boots fall heavier on each ascending step, the echo of his footfalls a crescendo that reverberates in his head. Like a man walking to his execution, he nods his head with brittle resolve to the other mages as he makes his way to the Tevinter's little alcove.

 

Dorian's back is to him, fingers tracing over spines of the old tomes on the bookshelf. To any casual observer, the mage is thoughtfully perusing his collection of books but Cullen's eyes perceive all the little tells in the Tevinter's posture: the slump in his shoulders, as if a weight settles heavily upon them, pressing him further towards the cold stone of the earth. The idleness of his fingers that trace back and forth between the same titles.

 

It's all a distraction.

 

“Ser Pavus?”

 

He should have given indication of his presence, the mage jumping at the unexpected intrusion. When he turns to address the Commander, Cullen is struck with a thought so raw, it reopens the wound he's been struggling to close.

 

Dorian looks as beautiful now as he had back when the Commander thought he could call the mage _his._

 

“If you're here to further reprimand my negligence, may I suggest leaving your disapproval in vellum? There are only so many ways I can apologize and I haven't the patience for another argument.”

 

He looks worn down, perhaps expecting Cullen to express more impassioned offense over a missed meeting that— _if_ the Commander is being reluctantly honest, hadn't amounted to more than a summary of what they already knew of the civil war in Orlais and a brief debate on fabrics (to which Cullen had nothing to add)—was more a waste of time than a discussion on strategy. Whatever strategy they are going to employ remains a topic for another session.

 

“I'm the one who should be apologizing. For being short with you.”

 

He has to look away, finds it near impossible to meet Dorian's eyes. Inside, he's being ripped open once again and every instinct has him wanting to take the mage into his arms, to ease whatever distress the Tevinter is going through, but the Commander knows it is no longer his place.

 

“You missed nothing of import, besides an argument between Leliana and Josephine regarding the color of the silk sash we are to wear,” Cullen continues.

 

He's half surprised he remembers that much of the disagreement, him and Cassandra exchanging a wary look when they were called upon to offer their input. It had been Varric, surprisingly, who managed to get both women to agree on a rich shade of royal blue before it could escalate.

 

Cullen had openly breathed a loud sigh of relief, earning him a glare from Leliana, when the topic finally shifted to the size of the entourage they would bring to Halamshiral.

 

“A silk sash?” Dorian asks, scoffing with distaste. “Please don't tell me we're to also wear cotton uniforms?”

 

The Commander's silence is all the answer Dorian needs.

 

“ _Fasta vass,_ you did need me at this meeting. But I suppose that's my punishment for not attending: an evening clad in gaudy finery that passes for stylish in Orlais. My only request is that if we fail to thwart the assassination and I perish, please don't bury me in that outfit.”

 

“You haven't even seen what we've selected yet,” Cullen argues, feeling his lips quirk in bemusement.

 

“Is it red?”

 

“...yes?”

 

“Typical,” Dorian mutters. “Red does my skin no favors.”

 

“I think you look rather good in red.”

 

The comment passes his lips before he can filter his thoughts, reminded of the few times Dorian had been naked upon his bed, coyly coveting the Commander's mantle to stave off the draft. But while Cullen feels more than embarrassed by the remark, the Tevinter takes it in stride.

 

“Of course I look good in red. I look good in _everything_ ,” the mage preens. “Yet some colors require I put more effort into my daily regimen, if I am to dazzle everyone in Halamshiral.”

 

“You're set on hating our attire, aren't you?”

 

“You must forgive my skepticism when my wardrobe for that evening relies on the opinions of Varric and our dear Seeker. The man's more chest than shirt and Cassandra would undoubtedly insist of somehow adding armor to our suits.”

 

“She _did_ suggest varghest scale cuffs,” Cullen says, failing to hide a smirk when Dorian blanches.

 

“At a _ball?_ Typical. But, she is a Pentaghast.”

 

There's a lightness now to Dorian that has been missing since Cullen arrived. It doesn't quite make the weariness lift off his shoulders, but it eases some of the tension, has both of them exchanging a small smile.

 

Maker, Cullen's missed this.

 

Perhaps Dorian does too.

 

Before awkwardness can once again settle between them and Cullen can ruin a good moment, he begins to excuse himself, stepping back from Dorian's little alcove.

 

“I have some reports to look over.”

 

“Of course,” the mage answers, easily. But there's something about the pull of his lips, as if he's trying to keep his pleasant smile in place. Or maybe Cullen doesn't know Dorian as well as he likes to think, sees more than what is actually there. “A Commander's work is never done, evidently.”

 

Before he can leave, Cullen adds, carefully, “If there's anything you need...you know you can always talk to me, Dorian.”

 

He doesn't want to give away that Lavellan mentioned anything but he also doesn't want Dorian to think he needs to bury himself in books or alcohol. Especially alcohol. He's heard enough from the Iron Bull and boisterous recruits how much of a mess the mage can be when indulging in drink at the tavern.

 

He's one step into his retreat, ignoring the dull throb he feels walking away from someone who had once been something—is still everything—to him, when a single name whispered quietly has him pausing mid-exit.

 

“Cullen.”

 

The Commander turns, faces Dorian.

 

He sees it all then: the sadness in those gray eyes.

 

It takes only a matter of steps before the mage is in his arms. An embrace offered in way of comfort, except Dorian is clinging to him, arms wrapped around Cullen's waist beneath his mantle, pressed as close to him as the Commander's armor would allow. Dorian's face is buried mostly in the fur, though his cheek grazes Cullen's stubbly neck, has the Commander swallowing thickly as he breathes in the spiced scent the Tevinter favors, pulse thrumming as everything he's been missing is literally in his grasp. There's a thudding in his chest, a staccato beat that lacks in rhythm, seeks order where there is disorder, reason when all he has is an incoherent mess of _need_ that makes him hold Dorian tighter.

 

He knows then what he's always known, what makes all of this unbearable.

 

Eventually, he has to let Dorian _go_.

 

And when he does, they will return to that strange limbo where they can be anything but what they once were.

 

“Thank you,” Dorian says, quietly. “I...needed that.”

 

Neither looks at the other as they pull apart.

 

And somehow, this is worse than the argument that had brought him here.

 

_He never loved you._

 

Cullen has to tell himself this. It makes walking away a little less painful.

 

*

 

Cullen's had more lovers than most give him credit for, though he can't (nor wouldn't) boast of having known more carnally than he can count on one hand. He's not a forward man, could hardly glance upon naked flesh without his cheeks heating and words tumbling off his lips with little coherency. Whenever there's been mutual interest, he's waited until they had made that first move, the fire and boldness in their declarations spurring him into action.

 

He still has trouble believing anyone could find him enticing, perhaps having heard too many times in his youth how simple and dull his rural upbringing has made him. But it's that knowledge that's marked in his flesh, proof that there's someone one out there who will love him for who he is, who the Maker made specifically for Cullen, that gives him hope that each time he falls into the heated embrace of a new lover, his search has come to its end and he will see a golden sun blazing somewhere on their skin.

 

The first time he tastes the bitter pill of disappointment is with Karin. It's in the height of his youth, not long after they both take their first draughts of lyrium, waiting for assignments that will likely see them sent to different ends of Ferelden. Her declaration of interest is as bold as her smirk, green eyes twinkling mischievously when she pulls Cullen with her to a hidden corner of the barracks and its by the pale glow of moonlight that he sees her mark: a crystal grace flower in full bloom on her lower hip. It hurts but he thinks, _This doesn't have to mean anything._ But Cullen wants it to mean something.

 

The next time is Kirkwall. Cullen's not in the right head, wakes up to terrors that has him clawing at his skin, sweat-soaking his sheets, and tears dripping down his face. He's too young to be this damaged but seen too much to not be angry. He needs an outlet, needs to bury himself in something if only to _forget._ And that's when he meets Tristan: a subordinate with too much swagger in his step and an unhealthy predilection for challenging authority. That he's a man doesn't bother Cullen. Cullen just wants to feel anything other that the helplessness that traps him in his own head. So when Tristan pushes, the Fereldan pushes back twice as hard until one fateful night, their argument finds them tangled in the sheets, naked bodies pressed together, groans so salacious they make the tips of his ears turn red.

 

It bothers him more than he would ever dare admit when he sees the crossing of a dagger over a quill on Tristan's left shoulder. But Cullen still submits, lets Tristan fuck him. Maker knows, he needs it.

 

Then it's before Haven. There's a war going on between mages and templars and Cullen's faith is put to the ultimate test. It's a mage who makes him begin to question where his place is in all this, makes him delve further into his nearly decade-long hatred for her kind and what that blind hate has wrought. Sylanna has as much fire in her as every other person he's bedded but there's a compassion in her that makes Cullen ashamed of how long it's taken him to learn patience, to see things from the other side.

 

It saddens him when he sees the sleeping halla on her ribs but not quite the same way that her death rips him when he finds her body days later: killed by rogue templars while she was out gathering herbs.

 

And that's when Cullen starts to _question._ Not just the war but this idea of fate. Because, with Sylanna, he had seen more than another temporary tryst, a detour to the path that would lead him to his soulmate. Maybe the Maker has made someone for him. But when did that become his only option, the only outcome that he should strive for?

 

It's in Skyhold that all of it goes _tits up_ , as Sera would say, when he finds he's committed more of his time than warranted to that obnoxious, walking example of vanity Lavellan let join the Inquisition. That he's Tevinter makes it far easier to hate him, especially given how he feels it necessary to interject his opinion in every conversation that doesn't concern him. That he's so devastatingly handsome it's almost irritating makes Cullen only grit his teeth through every pleasantry his Fereldan upbringing forces him to dish out when he wants nothing more than to punch the man. But he's made a promise to Lavellan and knows he needs to give as much to the Inquisition as the rest of her companions.

 

What he doesn't expect is to find he enjoys Dorian's company. It's a gradual change, one that starts with mutual hostility each time they sit at the chessboard, fling insults back and forth, and engage in a type of warfare that only damages their pride. Dorian's wit is unmatched, able to talk circles around Cullen in topics ranging from magical theory to the canonical histories of the nations of Thedas, with a tongue sharper than the tip of Lavellan's arrows. Cullen, however, is a born tactician whose had too much practice putting blowhards in their place.

 

It soon becomes a game, not of strategy, but of words. And one day, much to Cullen's shock, he realizes that they're not just riling each other up to knock their opponent off his high horse.

 

By Andraste, they're _flirting._

 

It's that splash of cold water that shakes him to his core, has Cullen standing so abruptly, red-faced, he knocks over the chessboard, declares his forfeiture in a statement that's more muttered syllables than actual words, and scurries off to his tower.

 

The triumphant smirk on Dorian's face has Cullen's stomach curling in familiarity, warmth pooling lower in places they hadn't for so long, he's almost certain he's forgotten what arousal felt like. It's behind the doors of his locked office that he breathes, attempts to steady the rapid pounding in his chest, finds distraction in the mountains of work that always awaits him.

 

Andraste's tits, he's attracted to Dorian!

 

He drops his head to his desk, mutters a string of expletives, and finds solace in knowing that there are worse fates than finding an attractive man...well, _attractive._

 

He vows to limit his time with Dorian but Cullen's a glutton for the temptation the mage offers. Each invitation, he indulges, finding it increasingly difficult to catch the Tevinter cheating when he's distracted by the man: his voice that sounds like honey to the Fereldan's ears, that mole he wishes he could press his lips to...

 

“I believe it's too hard for you.”

 

The statement catches the Commander off-guard, has him blushing because, _Maker, how could he possibly know that?_

 

“W-what?” Cullen croaks, voice rough.

 

“Accepting defeat graciously. You've got the strut of a cock in a coop full of hens and I believe it's my civic duty to the Inquisition to see you knocked down a peg.”

 

All Cullen hears is _cock_ and it's making his head go to places he can't control. He wonders what Dorian looks like beneath those ill-suited layers of leather he wears, what it would feel to run his hands over the man's bare flesh, what he would have to do to silence that sharp tongue or have the only word spilling off those lips be a name that cracks with each broken moan he—

 

“Commander?”

 

Cullen's stopped listening again, mouth dry, face heating as he's caught. His discomfort must be obvious, the way Dorian is glancing at him with interest. The fingers that had only been idling caressing the mage's bishop move to the Commander's wrist and the splash of heat Cullen feels at the contact has him looking away in embarrassment.

 

Maker help him, he wants more of it.

 

He hears more than sees Dorian rise, boots barely breaking a sound above the gentle breeze in the garden. A shiver trickles along his skin as those fingers coyly trace the inside of his palm, the touch promising intimacy Cullen wants to indulge. When the mage leans down, breath tickling the edge of the Commander's ear, Cullen knows there's no way he can try talking himself out of whatever the mage is offering.

 

“It appears you've been having _performance issues,_ Commander,” Dorian purrs. “And if this continues, I fear our games will continue to go unfinished.”

 

Cullen wants to reply but no sound will pass his lips, no single thought forming in his head. He's dizzy off the closeness of the other man, head spinning with each delicious trill that rocks every stroke of Dorian's fingers. From the corner of his eyes, he sees Mother Giselle's curious gaze and knows how odd the scene must play out, the mage whispering intimately in the Commander's ear like some temptress working to dismantle their cause from the top to bottom. But Cullen can't bring himself to care right just then, only knows he needs more of Dorian, in whatever form the mage is willing to give.

 

“Perhaps, I should stop by later tonight? With the right inspiration, you'll be back _on top_ of your game.”

 

Dear, Maker. _Yes._

 

The way he says it only makes Cullen spiral further into his arousal, a weak nod of his head all he's able to offer.

 

He hears the smirk in Dorian's voice as the man bids him good day.

 

It's some time before Cullen can bring himself to move.

 

*

 

She moves with the grace of a halla, body twisting and bending at angles that, more often than not, draw the Commander's eyes to her sleek figure. Each grunt and gasp has his ears burning but he can pretend it's exertion that's left him red-faced, slipping into an opening to push her back. Even when Lavellan stumbles back, she catches herself with a nimbleness he envies, having recalled far too many times he has been ungraciously knocked on his ass when caught with his left flank open. She catches on quick but she still has a lot to learn, though her footwork is no longer as sloppy as it was when they started sparring together.

 

“A moment,” she pants, raising a hand in surrender.

 

Cullen motions for a recruit to bring over water skins.

 

Handing his wooden sword to the young man, he grasps the leather pouch and drains most of it in a generous gulp, water dripping down his chin, the sun bearing down on them and making him squint at his sparring partner. He has to hold back a laugh, nearly chokes on his drink when instead of consuming the water, she squeezes her skin and pours it over her face. Her answering laugh is music matched only by the skilled strumming of Maryden's lyre.

 

“If we continue like this, I'll be too sore for my dancing lessons later,” Lavellan jokes, grinning at Cullen.

 

“Between dancing and learning to defend oneself, there's little argument to be made for which is more practical,” the Commander says, swiping at his wet chin.

 

They're both sweaty, dust clinging to their trousers and not even the briskness of the air offers reprieve from the exertion of their practice. But Cullen finds the Inquisitor radiates when she's like this, far more comfortable when she's moving to the tune of battle than standing stiffly and following Leliana's instructions on courtly etiquette.

 

Cullen, Lavellan, and Varric have come to despise those lessons.

 

“Try telling that to Leliana,” the Inquisitor answers, smirking. “Or my dance instructor.”

 

He doesn't want to think of dancing, dreading every session he has with Cassandra. She's as put off about having to play teacher as he is having to be there and most of their sessions have been wasted with both uttering how much they'd prefer beating each other with swords, wilting under Josephine's disapproval when Cullen willfully shows little-to-no progress. But the bitter mood the Seeker works herself into is nowhere near as downright foul as she gets when forced to dance with Varric. Cullen initially felt sorry for the dwarf, until he realized Varric gets a kick out of Cassandra being forced to do anything she doesn't want. Now, he almost wishes Cassandra an early retirement from instructing, if only to spare both her sanity and Varric's life.

 

For reasons that remain unsaid, Dorian has been teaching Lavellan in separate sessions.

 

It still stings to think of the mage. But since Cullen has made the decision to move on, it's been getting easier.

 

“I imagine Ser Pavus has strong opinions on the subject,” is all the Commander says, with a small smile.

 

“An entire rant that can fit a book, if one gets him started,” the Inquisitor says, “' _Start with your right, not your left. Ven-hee-diss, what are you doing? Is this how they dance in Ferelden? I've seen mabari yipping about with more rhythm than that!'_ ”

 

Despite himself, Cullen finds he's laughing, even when Lavellan stumbles over one of the Tevinter's favorite curse words. It sounds so typical of the man, he can easily picture Dorian reprimanding him, if the mage ever has the displeasure of seeing the Commander make a fool of himself on the dancefloor.

 

Maker, he just might if Cullen is actually forced to dance in Halamshiral.

 

Why can't the Inquisition send him to assist in the front lines of the Civil War instead?

 

“He calls it 'tough love' and says it's the only way I'll ever learn. ' _No more coddling, my dear Inquisitor: you are about to enter a court of vultures. If we are to make the Orlesians fall in love with you, you'll need to move as gracefully as every pompous marquis in a gauche mask and mismatched silks.'_ ”

 

Cullen finds he can't hide his smile as Lavellan matches Dorian's critical tone perfectly, though she can't quite inflect the Tevene accent in the right way. His chuckling dies down as she lifts the edge of her shirt, exposing a fading scar on her abdomen, using the cloth to dry off the lower part of her face. At first, it's the sight of skin that had once been hidden to him, a deep hue only slightly darker than the Tevinter's, makes the Commander swallow hard at imagining how warm it must be to the touch.

 

But then something catches his eye, a symbol he's prayed before on hands and knees, etched into his back and blazing golden with the ferocity of the sun.

 

His soulmark.

 

On flesh that isn't his own.

 

His water skin drops to the dust.

 

“Maker's breath!” Cullen gasps.

 

His knees feel ready to buckle, the dizzying revelation making something erupt inside of him, a pull towards inevitability. Everything begins to make sense, the pieces falling into place, of desire that's always been there, interest driven not only by mutual cause alone.

 

Suddenly, his coming to and serving the Inquisition is fate written before he knew _choice_ , of the Maker working his wonders in ways Cullen often dismissed as too enigmatic for his understanding.

 

This is, and always was, where he is supposed to be.

 

With her.

 

“You're not the first person to have that reaction,” Lavellan says, nervously tucking her shirt back and covering her soulmark. “You can't imagine how many times I've heard, ' _Of course you're the Herald! Andraste came to you because the Maker put his mark on you!'_ But after Adamant, well...”

 

The Commander is unable to form any response, struck dumb. His expression must convey that because it only makes the Inquisitor shuffle uncomfortably.

 

“I really should remember not to show it to people,” she mumbles, “Creators, you're reacting almost as badly as Dorian. And while I understand both of you believe in the Maker, I don't want either of you to treat me differently. The Chantry's symbol makes me no more 'chosen' than the mark on my hand.”

 

He knows how hard she's pushed back against being equated with a deity, refusing to let her advisers use her abilities to manipulate devout Andrastians to blindly follow their cause. That she doesn't believe in the Maker only makes it more awkward when she addresses new arrivals to Skyhold, who are more swayed by rumor than the truth revealed at Adamant.

 

He's about to correct her, tell her the _truth_ , tell her that it's not about who she may be in the eyes of the Maker but who she is to _him,_ when something that Lavellan reveals has Cullen biting back a full confession.

 

Dorian knows?

 

He knew and he said _nothing_ to Cullen?

 

The Commander doesn't know how he should feel. But whatever it is, it shouldn't be this sense of betrayal that's slowly building until it's roaring inside of him, the conflict of hurt that's edging out the elation he was expecting at finding the woman who bears the same mark as him.

 

“Can we just forget about it for now?” Lavellan pleads.

 

He hears her desperation and answers it with a numb nodding of his head.

 

The awkwardness that follows becomes so unbearable that their sparring session ends soon after.

 

*

 

Cullen knows Dorian's reputation, knows what to expect, if the whispers among some of his soldiers are to be believed. He's seen how casually the mage and Iron Bull joke about nights of rough sex, watched as Dorian's winked coyly and thanked one of his own scouts for ' _the other night'_ , and has heard the Tevinter make offhand remarks about soreness after a ' _delightful evening'_.

 

Dorian doesn't get attached. He makes no secret of that. And anyone whose slipped between the sheets with him does so with no expectation of a repeat of the night's festivities.

 

So why does it bother him if he knows this was nothing more than a single night of carnal fun?

 

It's well into the evening, the candle on his bedside table long gone out, exhaustion settling heavily on him, but sleep has yet to find him. He's staring at the back of the man who snores peacefully beside him, what little moonlight that seeps between the cracks in his ceiling falling on the symbol of a snake circling an orb. It's a sign of everything that isn't, of the necessity of reading little into the mage's motivations beyond another of his famed _'delightful evenings'_.

 

Cullen's not disappointed that they are not soulmates.

 

He doesn't care that this is only a one-time thing.

 

It doesn't have to mean anything. It won't.

 

So when Dorian rolls over, curls into Cullen's chest, a gentle sigh uttered against the Commander's neck, he tells himself that he doesn't feel anything when he pulls the mage into his arms, pulse hammering as Dorian finds a comfortable niche and slips back into a light rest. There's nothing about the Tevinter that makes him question what he's waited for his entire life, finding the one he is meant to be with. Nothing at all that makes him believe maybe, _maybe,_ he can find happiness with someone else.

 

“You should get some sleep, Commander,” Dorian mumbles, sliding an arm across Cullen's waist.

 

The Fereldan swallows thickly.

 

It doesn't have to mean anything.

 

But by the dawn, when Cullen rises and sees the mage still in his bed, he comes to a startling revelation.

 

It does _._

 

_*_

 

The next few days pass by in a blur, the last of the Inquisition's arrangements being made before their selected party will be sent to Orlais. Cullen does his best to attend the dance and etiquette lessons but finds he's bogged down with missive after missive arriving from the Exalted Plains, the Inquisition's declared neutrality in the Orlesian Civil War putting their presence in the region in an uncomfortable position. With villages and Dalish elves caught in the crossfire, their troops have been ordered to not intervene, lest one side assumes the Inquisition is aiding the enemy. But as reports of dead farmers and villagers arrive, farms sacked and razed, Cullen experiences a guilt-ridden helplessness that has him wondering how they have become so entwined in the political games of the Orlesian elite, they're willing to let innocents die just to avoid “stirring the pot”.

 

Maker's breath, this is not what he signed up for.

 

And now he's more than an hour late for the final fitting of his attire, rattled by an order he's given to exile well-meaning soldiers for their insubordination when they opted to save a village loyal to Gaspard from an attack by the Empress' troops. Yes, these peasants had condemned their village by making a choice but—by Andraste, they were just _peasants_. The senseless destruction of their livelihood was the Empress' way of ruling with an iron fist, demoralizing those who 'betrayed' the empire.

 

And for deciding they were done with sitting around while farms burned around them, Cullen had to let go of men and women who seem to have their shit together better than those leading them.

 

Or, at least, better than him _._

 

He tries forcing it from his thoughts but it's left him in a bitter mood, made all the worse by yet another obligation meant to make him appeasing to nobles too self-indulgent to concern themselves with a war waged by their petty games and coin. Dressing up for them, learning how to _talk_ to them, ranks quite high on the Commander's list of things he'd rather not be doing, not when he'd rather be coordinating efforts to reach out to refugees of the war and offer them a place in the Inquisition.

 

He should take this to the Inquisitor, demand—

 

No.

 

He still can't bring himself to face her, not after their last sparring session.

 

Maker preserve him, he's even more helpless when he's torn apart by what he should want and what he does.

 

By the time he arrives at the main keep, he's storming up the steps to where the tailor had temporarily set up shop, the sentries he passes looking ready to jump out of their skin as they salute him. His usual cordial politeness and patience is so removed, he wastes no time in being invited in as he pushes open the door hard, shutting it loudly behind him and going over to the nearest armor stand without so much as a greeting. Pieces are being removed haphazardly, lacking the strict care in which he always undresses, some even clattering noisily to the floor when he fails to secure it on the stand.

 

So help him, he wants to get this over with and be done with Orlesians as soon as possible.

 

“Well, I must say, that is _quite_ the entrance, Commander.”

 

He drops his left vambrace to the floor, the warm teasing in that voice making the pounding in his head echo louder. It's more than he can deal with and he finds he's pinching the bridge of his nose, struggling to not let bitterness creep into his voice.

 

“I was under the impression _I_ was scheduled for a final fitting, Ser Lambert,” Cullen says.

 

And wouldn't that just be the final twisting of the blade in a bleeding wound, if Cullen mixed up appointments.

 

“I sent messages but had been informed the Commander was not to be disturbed,” the tailor answers, unable to keep from employing a judgmental tone. “So, I requested Lord Pavus arrive earlier. If the Commander would be so kind as to get dressed while he waits, I shall be with him shortly.”

 

Impatience winning him over, Cullen turns, ready to snap at the tailor but as he catches sight of Dorian, his words catch in his throat.

 

What appears stiff and uncomfortable when donned by the Fereldan looks as if it had been made and meant for the mage alone. The gold trimming contrasts warmly with the Tevinter's skin, the bright red that he had once dismissed moodily, bringing out the stormy hues of the mage's eyes. Even the blue sash compliments Dorian solid frame while Cullen felt like it was the bright ribbon over a shapeless sack when he had last tried it on.

 

Curse the cruelty of it all, Dorian really does look good in everything.

 

“Your suit is over there, Commander,” the tailor says, indicating to one of the stands impatiently.

 

“Now, now, Lambert, no need to rush the man,” Dorian says, lips curling in a smirk. “I believe your handiwork has rendered him speechless.”

 

The tailor mumbles a remark in Orlesian, to which the mage snorts.

 

Cullen says nothing, his cheeks heating, as he walks over to the stand. He's certain they're poking fun at him and though he's hardly self-conscious enough to give it attention (not that he can understand Orlesian), it threatens to have him slip back into his foul mood. He keeps his back to Dorian, removes his frayed tunic, a prickling at the back of his neck letting him know someone's eyes are on him. Unable to resist the nervous tick, he scratches the skin there, fingers only inches from where his mark sits between his shoulders.

 

The same mark Dorian saw on Lavellan and said _nothing_.

 

Suddenly, Cullen can't be sure if he wants to flee before he can say what's been sitting on the edge of his tongue for days or let the mage have it.

 

It's that final snapping of a taut cord that has him hastily buttoning up the red coat, desperate to cover himself than give Dorian an eyeful of something he had cast aside without care while also choosing to take with him the truth about Lavellan.

 

“I'd like a word in private with Lord Pavus, Ser Lambert,” Cullen says.

 

He keeps his voice steady though inside, he's roiling with hurt and anger.

 

“I wouldn't want to keep you from your appointment, Commander,” Dorian says, attempting for diplomacy. But Cullen sees the brief look of panic in the mage's eyes, even as he hides behind a nonchalant smile. “Our poor Lambert has worked himself into quite a state with last minute alterations and the ever-changing demands of Lady Montilyet. I'm certain he'd much rather finish his work sooner than later.”

 

“This, unfortunately, cannot wait.”

 

Maker knows that if Dorian had his way, he'd run away from every conversation Cullen tried to initiate.

 

“You're finished, Lord Pavus,” Lambert says, the shorter man walking around the mage and giving a final nod of approval.

 

“You, Lambert, are a miracle worker. And to think, you've turned what should have been a dreadful clashing of color into a work of art. I absolutely insist that you make my next outfit, once those silks I ordered from Minrathous arrive.”

 

The tailor sets aside the last of the pins he removed, excusing the pair with a nod that isn't lacking in further disapproval for the Commander's latest request. Cullen knows there's little love lost between them, given how non-commital and disinterested he's been in all his previous fittings with the tailor, but at this point, he's convinced the man hates him.

 

“Well, get on with it,” Dorian says, as soon as they are alone.

 

He acts impatient and perhaps he is—a telltale twitching in his otherwise defensive posture, arms crossed over his chest. But Cullen sees how the mage is itching to give into his _flight_ response, abandon the Commander before words can be exchanged that he has no interest in hearing.

 

It's almost unsettling how everything's changed and yet, somehow, remains the same. Dorian's as predictable as he is unpredictable, reacting as Cullen would expect while also hiding his true emotions behind an impassive expression.

 

But the ex-templar is too bitter to play these games and delivers his words with a cutting edge that severs any pretense of civility.

 

“You _knew._ ”

 

To his credit, the mage doesn't flinch, a feat still not mastered by any of the Inquisition's soldiers when being addressed by the Commander in that tone.

 

“I'm afraid you'll have to elaborate, Commander, as I have yet to practice any form of magic that allows me to read minds,” the Tevinter remarks, with a glibness that rankles Cullen.

 

“Now's not the time for you to act as if you have no idea what I meant,” the Commander seethes. “You knew about the Inquisitor and you said nothing. Why?”  
  


“It was never my place to say anything. And seeing how _close_ you two have become, I assumed it was only a matter of time—”

 

“Maker's breath, don't tell me you also believe every rumor about her and I,” Cullen interrupts.

 

“It can't all be mere 'rumors' if you know what lays beneath her armor,” Dorian snaps.

 

Almost as soon as the words are spoken, Cullen sees a flash of panic in the mage's gray eyes. There's no denying the vitriol in his tone, a peek behind the cool mask the mage has donned since ending what was between them.

 

Dorian doesn't like whatever he believes is between the Inquisitor and the Commander.

 

But it defies how unaffected the mage has acted, how indifferent he had been when he decided he was bored of Cullen.

 

If Cullen didn't know better, he'd almost think the man _jealous._

 

“How I know is not your concern,” the Commander answers, though he feels his cheeks color at what the mage is implying. “What I can't understand is why you would keep this from me. You've known for some time now, is that right?”

 

Dorian's silence is all the affirmation Cullen needs.

 

He curses, words that would have made his mother cuff him for speaking so foully of the Maker's bride, beneath his breath. It's not just anger now but that sense of betrayal, of at least believing Dorian cares for and respects what they have to be _honest_ with him. But, evidently, the mage holds an even lower regard for what is and was between them than Cullen had imagined.

 

“I can't blame you for not thinking what we had was...” But his voice shakes and he has to pause, steady it lest it shatters and he reveals more than he intends, words that would mean nothing to the Tevinter. “...but I had thought—perhaps, that we were on friendly enough terms that...Maker damn it all, is this really how little you care?!”

 

“Your estimation of my feelings regarding this subject are ostensibly misplaced. As I said,” Dorian says, slow and patronizing, “it was never my place to meddle in your affairs _after_ we stopped sleeping together.”

 

“Sleeping together? Is that all it was?”

 

He can't keep his voice from dripping with disgust, knows that his hurt is etched into the fine lines stress has wrought in his expression. He steps forward and Dorian takes a cautious step back towards the mirror, the quickly diminishing space between them bursting with tension no weapon could pierce.

 

“I never claimed it was anything more,” the mage answers, gaze cool and voice stubborn as ever. “I, at least, have no illusions that what we had was—”

 

“You'd have me believe that not once—not _once—_ did you think of me as more than another of your conquests?” Cullen says, so hurt and angry, he's shaking. “Then what about Adamant, Dorian? Maker's breath, why even work yourself into such a fury if you never cared at all?!”

 

“You've read more into what we had than what was there, _Commander_ ,” he says. “Perhaps, if you had kept a level-head, you wouldn't—”

 

“Then Maker take me for making me love a man so heartless!”

 

It's off his tongue before he can help himself, words he swore he would take to his grave before subjecting himself to the changeable whims of his once lover. He can feel humiliation burning his cheeks, withers beneath the look Dorian gives him, unable to meet those stormy eyes that widen in disbelief.

 

Cullen's one step away from falling to his knees and begging the mage for another chance. It's a new low, a misery that dices away at what little rationale he has left and he knows he's in danger if he lets any more traitorous words pass his loose tongue.

 

He turns on his heels, ready to take a cue from his ex-lover and _flee_. If his time with Dorian has taught him anything, it's that self-preservation can only be had when one lets words die before they can be crafted.

 

But he's stopped by a hand that falls heavily on his shoulder.

 

It's the familiarity of it that makes his panic evaporate, Cullen never one to flee a battle but to face all demons that challenge him. It's his fear of _failure_ that has always driven him, fear of failing those around him but, most of all, himself.

 

And how that failure would mark him if he walks away now instead of owning the words he so passionately claimed.

 

“You—”

 

Dorian's voice cracks.

 

The Commander turns, not certain what to make of the sadness he is met with. He's seen Dorian too drunk to contain misery but never this shattered when everything about the mage's demeanor suggests sobriety. He's trying to connect the dots, determine what it is about his confession that unmasks the man, but he is rendered powerless by his own failure to understand what is happening.

 

“You can't possibly mean...”

 

Dorian is no more able to finish what he intends to ask than he had been moments before, shaking his head as if he is still unable to believe what the Commander said.

 

Cullen swallows thickly.

 

“I do.”

 

“Lavellan—!”

 

“Dorian,” Cullen interrupts, grasping both of the mage's gloved hands in his. He almost wishes the man isn't in full uniform, wants nothing more than to feel the warmth of their entwined fingers. It's been so long since they've been this close. “I love _you._ ”

 

He doesn't want to speak of the Inquisitor, of marks or Fate.

 

All he wants, in that moment, is Dorian.

 

The mage doesn't say anything, seems to either be fighting back words he wishes to speak or seeks to find words that have failed him. He's trembling as he pulls his hands from Cullen's grip and the Fereldan can't help but look down sadly, shoulders deflating, feeling the sting of embarrassment as much as rejection.

 

But then, he hears the tugging of leather, eyes flicking to the gloves Dorian sets aside on the nearby stand.

 

It's warm hands that grasp the Commander's chin, lifts his face until he's staring into the mage's eyes, open and vulnerable, brimming with that same sense of helplessness that the Tevinter had only unveiled in their most intimate moments.

 

“You foolish, senseless idiot,” the mage whispers, voice unsteady.

 

It's desperation fueled by the loss of their intimacy, makes him grab Dorian tightly. Maker help him, he's been a listless, empty shell without the mage being a constant – those arms that pull him close when he's ready to succumb to stress, that voice that whispers softly in his ears and makes him _believe_ that there's an end to the torment lyrium has wrought on his mind. It's knowing that Dorian's there on the worst of his days that made everything seem bearable and without it, he's a mess of purposeless direction.

 

So when Dorian's fingers card through his hair, when the Tevinter is close enough that the Commander can feel his breath on his cheek, he groans breathlessly, presses in closer, and seeks those lips that he hasn't claimed for so long, he's almost forgotten their taste.

 

Any sound the mage attempts is broken at the back of his throat. Cullen half expects to be pushed back, hear Dorian snap at him, tell him again how much of an idiot he's being.

 

But then, much to his surprise, the Tevinter is kissing him back.

 

It's that first breath one inhales when breaching the surface, lungs expanding, aching, exploding, gasping to selfishly covet the air they've been denied. Like a man fighting to stay above the waves, it's as if Cullen's recalling what it means to _breathe_ as he takes and takes, mouth greedily tasting Dorian's, submitting when the Tevinter's tongue seeks entrance. He pushes, pressing the mage hard against the mirror, but any bruises or aches his actions inflict is nowhere as near as hard as the man is now, dress trousers failing to hide either of their quickly filling arousals as they rub against each other.

 

“Cullen,” Dorian whimpers, panting heavily.

 

The Commander's lips move to the mage's neck, teasing and nipping at the bit of flesh peeking above the thick collar of the coat. Dorian's pulling hard at Cullen's locks, mussing them out of their carefully oiled trap, enough that it should hurt but, by Andraste, does Cullen not care because hearing every gasp his lips evoke is music no songstress could ever transcribe to instrument. He'd gladly never hear anything again if the last sound he hears is Dorian crying his name.

 

“Dorian,” Cullen moans against the mage's neck, snapping his hips against the mage's.

 

Anyone could walk in on them. They are by no means safe.

 

It doesn't stop the Commander from dropping to his knees, pushing up the fabric of Dorian's dress coat, and mouthing at skin he's exposed. Flesh the color of dark sand, quivering beneath his lips, hot against his mouth, he teasingly drags his tongue over Dorian's abdomen, the tug at his hair and deep hiss the mage emits making the Commander's ears burn. But he wants it—Maker, is he greedy—to taste every inch of the Tevinter before reason prevails and one of them stops this before they can damage each other further.

 

_He never loved you_ is a mantra that loses all meaning when the mage's cock is tenting the Tevinter's trousers, desperate for the Commander's touch.

 

_He never loved you_ are words Cullen can ignore when Dorian's gasping his name and impatiently rutting his hips against the Fereldan's shoulder.

 

“Cullen, _please!_ ”

 

_He never loved you_ means nothing when Dorian _needs_ him.

 

Pulling down the mage's smalls and pants, Cullen exposes the Tevinter's heavy arousal, wasting no time in grasping it and running his hands over the length, applying only enough pressure to have the mage shiver at his touch. Pre-cum has already smeared across the glistening head, the air thick with the musky scent of the man, and Cullen would be a liar if he claimed that giving head has always been a task he set out on with enthusiasm but that was before he met Dorian. When it came to having his throat fucked, there was Cullen before Dorian – put off by the taste, tolerating the burn of a heavy cock hitting the back of his throat, doing just what needed to be done to return a mutual act of pleasure. And then there is Cullen after Dorian – driven hard by the smell of the mage, dripping in his smalls when Dorian gasps his name, greedily swallowing every drop the Tevinter spills down his throat. It is the easiest way to make the mage come undone and the Commander thrives on it, tonguing at the slit as he laps at a few drops dribbling off the head.

 

Andraste forgive him for all his blasphemous lust, he'd supplicate himself to new gods if it meant he can once more share this kind of intimacy with Dorian.

 

Coating the mage's shaft with saliva makes it easier to pump his fist along the base, relaxing his jaw as he takes in as much as his throat would allow. The weight of Dorian on his tongue has Cullen moaning, a sound that vibrates against the mage's erection, fingers tugging painfully at his golden curls. His name breaks each time it tumbles off the mage's lips, an infinite litany that crescendos on the second syllable. Cullen seeks only to see that plea fulfilled, grips the mage tightly with his free hand as he bobs his head along the shaft.

 

He makes no effort to stop the mage when Dorian thrusts forward, Cullen all but choking on the rough burn of the mage filling his mouth.

 

“C-Cullen, I—!”

 

The Commander cares little for his own discomfort, mouth slurping and sliding smoothly along Dorian's cock. He anticipates the bitter taste of the mage, desiring nothing more than to swallow every bit of Dorian's thick cum when he brings that pulsating arousal to completion. Jealously, he wonders if the mage has had anyone else in the months since they were last intimate and that more selfish side of him hopes he can leave the man wrecked enough to not want to take any other lover.

 

Just as he expects to taste Dorian, no amount of pre-cum able to satisfy the lascivious hunger that has gripped the ex-templar, Cullen is pushed almost roughly from the mage's cock. A sound of protest cracks roughly from his swollen throat but then he is tugged upright, pulled into the mage's arms, the mage gasping as he kisses the Fereldan fiercely. Cullen dizzily crashes Dorian back against the mirror, barely able to hold himself upright, hears the cracking in the glass that he has no doubt will only paint him more at fault in Lambert's eyes but he can't bring himself to give more than two fucks about the tailor.

 

Not when Dorian is wrecked and panting and kissing him like _this._

 

“Let me—let me...” Cullen groans hoarsely, reaching down to touch the mage's cock.

 

Dorian grasps his hand, entwining their fingers instead.

 

Something about the gesture, about the size of Dorian's hand in his, has Cullen spiraling farther into the bewitching temptation that the mage offers.

 

He's feverish in the delirium of being in Dorian's presence, coherency and reason abandoned to his growing thirst for what they had, what they were, what they _are._ Any other hand on him has never felt as if it was made for his grip, not in the same way that Dorian's does.

 

“I—I need you,” he utters, broken.

 

It's the honesty of his admission that makes him surrender, completely at the mercy of the mage _._

 

Cullen's aching as his lips once again seek Dorian's, tugging the jacket off the mage's shoulders. He almost sighs when he feels bare flesh beneath his hands, pulls the Tevinter tighter into his embrace, running his hands down low on the mage's hips.

 

"Cullen," Dorian whispers, his voice cracking with want. "We should stop."

 

The mage's fingers are on the Commander's trousers as he says this, fumbling with the laces, his hands unable to heed his own advice. He gives up in frustration, palms the ex-templar's erection and Cullen's so overcome with want, he steals another rough, sloppy kiss from the Tevinter, rutting into his hand.

 

"Maker take me, I don't want to," Cullen groans, just as desperate for the mage's touch.

 

But all that heated desire comes to a crashing halt when Cullen grasps the Tevinter's right bicep. There's a stiffness to Dorian, a crackle in the air as his gray eyes dart up to the Commander's, the look that passes over his face unreadable. Skin Cullen remembers being smooth is raised and misshapen, scarred and discolored, though the snake retains most of its initial shape.

 

“Dorian...”

 

The Commander traces his thumb over the burn, voice thick with concern. But it was the wrong thing to do, has Dorian shifting away uncomfortably, spurning the ex-templar's gentle caress.

 

It's that moment of sobriety, awashing both of them with a cold kind of shame that resonates like a deadly toxin, burns him worse than any demon's flame ever has, when the mage places an unsteady palm on the Commander's chest.

 

The mark that divides them, dictates separate fates that would see their continued dalliance a defiance in the eyes of the Maker, seems to mock the Fereldan, has his hand falling numbly to his side.

 

“Cullen...”

 

The Tevinter looks sadly up at the Commander, his shaky tone clinging to the sound of the Fereldan's name slipping off his tongue. As if he could weave time magic itself with a name alone, stretching and prolonging this final moment before the reality of what they are once again sees them parted.

 

Inside, Cullen is screaming, pleading, willing Dorian to not ask of him to give up the one thing he is sure of, the one thing he has tried, and failed, to let go.

 

_Not again._

 

But Fate is no more kinder to him now than when it scarred them with different marks.

 

"We should _stop_."

 

Cullen knows Dorian is right. But he doesn't want him to be.

 

But he is unable to say anything, trapped by his own indecision, torn between defying Fate and doing what the Maker had intended for him.

 

So, he let's Dorian decide for him.

 

He nods.

 

Cullen has always been frustratingly good at following orders.

 

It is in stifling silence, Cullen grounded by the weight of what they can never be, that he watches, sadly, as the mage dresses.

 

The Maker cursed him when he let Cullen fall for a man this beautiful.

 

_Please don't do this_ , he wants to say.

 

But he doesn't.

 

"I'm sorry," Dorian whispers, not looking at the Commander.

 

A sudden thought crosses the Fereldan's mind, has him reaching, though he knows he shouldn't, to lift the mage's chin.

 

“Is that why you ended it?” Cullen asks. “Because of Lavellan?”

 

He doesn't want to believe that it was nothing that had the mage kissing him back with the same yearning that the Commander has suffered every day they've been apart. He doesn't want to believe Dorian's desperation for his touch was driven by lust alone, the man having proven in the past how easily he can find companionship.

 

Cullen doesn't want to believe that if he loves Dorian this much, that feeling can't be mutual.

 

Dorian doesn't say anything immediately, fixing his steely gaze on the Commander. As the ex-templar seeks for something—anything—behind the barrier the mage has erected, he's met with only a pitying glance that begs more questions than it answers.

 

“If that is what you need to tell yourself, Commander.”

 

But the implication is there, unspoken, because, perhaps, Dorian has at least enough empathy to save the last of Cullen's dignity.

 

_I never loved you,_ are words he's too gracious to say as he slips by Cullen, making his way to the door.

 

“You really are heartless,” the Commander says, bitterness edged in every broken note that echoes in the space between them.

 

He's met only with the mage's backside, not even a falter in the man's step as he leaves Cullen crumbling behind him.

 

Unable to bear the sight of Dorian walking away, Cullen turns, drops his hands to the table with the tailor's tools and fabrics, blinks rapidly as he feels his vision blur. He can't quite bring sorrow to overtake him, draws breath deeply even as every inhalation feels like knives cutting into his lungs.

 

_He never loved you_ suddenly means everything.

 

 


	3. Speechless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian finds solace at the bottom of many bottles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter is this seemingly 'doomed' Cullrian-verse of mismatched soulmarks. I'd first like to thank [Sedda](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sedda/pseuds/Sedda) for giving me inspiration on how the Qunari deal with soulmarks. Apologies, as I know your comment on mutilated soulmarks was regarding Cullen so you may be disappointed in how I ran with it but I believe in giving credit where credit is due. 
> 
> To readers who dislike Adoribull, I will warn you in advance that this chapter touches on past physical intimacy they shared, with hints that can be read as more than platonic but, for the most part, the relationship is meant to be non-romantic in this fic. I tend to include canon as much as possible when using the backdrop of established plot/lore from the source materials to shape the world in my stories and, in this case, it's Thedas with soulmarks so many of those canon elements remain canon within this fic. Adoribull is not a ship I'm particularly fond of but I still try to give it the respect it deserves by showing that these two are still important to each other. If you take any issue with Adoribull, it's simply a case of, "Don't like, don't read."
> 
> This chapter is also angst-heavy but I'd like to think I've sprinkled some hope in it. Although it may not seem like it, I am working towards a happy resolution. It's just a matter of finding the time to write the rest of it. Thank you to everyone who has been following, and commenting, on this story. Without your support, I honestly would have left this as a sad one-shot.

By the time Dorian reaches his quarters, he's worked himself into a stormy mood. He's on the precipice of screaming out in rage and crumbling in despair, hands shaking as he closes the door more loudly than intended. He swipes his arm out in front of him, sends a blast of energy towards his vanity, potions and personal grooming products clattering off its surface. He hears some vials shatter but he can't bring himself to lament the loss of his fragrances, storming over to his closet and hastily removing his coat.

 

He has at least enough foresight to know better than to begin a night of drinking wearing the attire he needs for Halamshiral.

 

“Heartless,” he mutters, changing into one of his silk robes.

 

He puts it on so viciously, it tears. No longer wearable, he's forced to remove it and grabs another one.

 

“Heartless!”

 

Saying it aloud makes his chest feel heavy, cold shame numbing him as his eyes prickle.

 

He can tell himself he's angry. But even he knows there's a truth to his actions that has the word spilling off his lips like a confession. And the more he utters it in his haste to dress, the more he's in danger of believing that is what he's become.

 

He rips off his rings, letting them clatter noisily on the messy vanity. His vision blurs as he seeks the one he wants—silverite band, meant to weave around his middle finger like a snake—and it's only stubborn pride that has him blinking away the evidence of how deeply Cullen's accusation has cut him.

 

He won't let himself feel sorrow for what that—that ignorant fool—said. Cullen doesn't understand—he can't possibly _know—_ how hard it is for Dorian to give him up.

 

But it also doesn't mean that Dorian will let the man get away with insinuating that the Tevinter was the one being unreasonable for not letting emotional attachment get in the way of what fate has already decided.

 

Call it childish and vindictive but if Cullen believes Dorian to be heartless, well, then Dorian was going to show him just how heartless he can be.

 

He doesn't bother pouring himself a glass, drinking straight from the half-finished bottle of red wine near his bed. It tastes awful, cheap, too acidic from his lazy attempts at storing it but he isn't drinking it out of any personal enjoyment.

 

No, if he's going to work himself into fucking someone else to make him forget about that conversation with Cullen, he'll need a lot more.

 

*

 

“ _Dimmitas_!” Dorian snaps, attempting to shove Krem away.

 

He can barely stand on his legs, swaying dangerously and forced to grab a nearby chair to keep from falling over. The room is spinning and before he knows it, he's tripping into it, a strong grip on his shoulder keeping him upright.

 

“What's he saying?” a deep voice asks, sounding amused.

 

“Far less colorful things than he was shouting at the bar, Chief,” Krem answers.

 

“I had more to say to that—that _matris futuor_!”

 

“I'm sure you did.”

 

“ _Venhedis,_ if you'd just—!”

 

“You kiss your mother with that mouth, Altus?”

 

Krem's chuckling has the other Tevinter glaring daggers in the direction he thinks Krem is standing. He tries to get out of Bull's ironclad grip but is unable to maneuver out of it. Probably for the best since even shifting around leaves him even more lightheaded and he can't be certain if he's ready to keel over and vomit or curl up on the tavern's dust-covered floorboards.

 

“Sit down, Vint.”

 

He glowers at the hulking mass beside him as he is pushed down into the chair. Folding his arms petulantly over his chest, Dorian tries his best to look the part of dangerous, evil Tevinter mage but if the Iron Bull's laugh is anything to go by, he's pretty sure he looks like a sulking toddler.

 

“I had the situation perfectly under control... _before_ you so rudely intervened,” Dorian says.

 

“Really? 'Cause I'm pretty sure you were about to get clocked for running your mouth off like that,” Krem replies.

 

There are three Krems standing off to his left and Dorian's not certain which one he's supposed to be glaring at so he directs his dirty look to the one in the middle. For whatever reason, the one in the middle is pissing him off the most.

 

“Huh? Must have said something to really get under your skin, Vint.”

 

The mage tenses, even in his drunken state, able to tell when the ex-ben hassrath is fishing for information. He can hardly be sure how his evening had went from light flirtation and escalated to the shouting match he had found himself in but he remembers the topic of the conversation well enough to not want it repeated to the insightful Qunari.

 

“Hardly anything you need to concern yourself with, Bull. Just unruly, boorish Fereldans being...well, _Fereldans._ ”

 

“They said the Commander's a spineless twat for playing nice with the Orlesians and Dorian called them, ' _sons of goat fuckers'_ in about 5 different languages,” Krem answers.

 

Dorian's pretty sure the Krem on the left said that and shifts his glare. “Have you no filter, Cremisius?”

 

“Could ask the same of you, Pavus. Oh, and you might want to look a bit more to the right. That wall's not gonna burst into flame if you keep staring at it like that.”

 

“ _Vishante kaffas! Quando podeces te—!”_

 

“Enough,” Bull says, pushing Dorian back down into the chair as the mage attempts to stand up. “Look, Dorian, I'm sure those little shits had it coming. But maybe try being less Vint-y and threatening to set people on fire next time.”

 

“I wasn't _actually_ going to set them on fire. Just teach those brutes some well overdue lessons in manners. Respect for authority and all that,” Dorian says, with a indignant sniff.

 

“So you getting into a brawl has nothing to do with who was being insulted? Just like you showing up shit-faced and throwing yourself at the first taker has nothing to do with that shitty mood you've been in since you stopped sleeping with Cullen?”

 

Dorian narrows his eyes up at the Qunari.

 

“Precisely.”

 

But none of the Bulls standing in front of him appear convinced. If the damned Qunari would just stay in place, it would be easier to figure out which one to direct his ire at.

 

All the Iron Bulls sigh. “Dorian, I can't help you if you won't—”

 

“I don't need _help_ ,” the mage all but hisses. “What I need is a drink and a willing co-conspirator to indulge every one of my delicious whims. Perhaps one of those new templars we recruited? I hear those Chantry boys can get quite libidinous and I've yet to try southern templar.”

 

All the Krems and all the Bulls exchange a _look._

 

“He's all yours, Chief.”

 

With the Krems gone and the room spinning faster, Dorian's head suddenly feels heavier and he only just manages to hold back a groan as he leans forward in his chair and drops it in his hands. There's a large hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles, but he's trying too hard to keep down everything he had consumed to indulge the gentle touch.

 

“Think you're a bit too drunk for a good fuck.”

 

“I'm never too drunk for a fuck,” Dorian tries to argue, even when he can barely lift his head.

 

“No doubt about that,” Bull says, with a knowing chuckle. Despite how sick he's feeling, the mage can't help but feel a warm trill at the memory of their last time together, not long before him and Cullen had started sleeping together. It had only been a few times but it had brought them closer together and for the friendship that came of it, Dorian wouldn't trade that for anything. “But a _good fuck_? Need to be more sober for that.”

 

After a long pause, Dorian relents.

 

“I suppose I overdid it a bit.”

 

He hears the word _heartless_ , an echo inside his head,

 

“Come, let's get you to bed.”

 

He feels numb as Bull helps him stand, leaning most of his weight on the larger Qunari. Bull easily guides them through the tavern, the loud raucous and rude jeers from the bar white noise to the growing pounding in Dorian's head. It's once they are outside and the evening air hits him that the dizzying nausea bubbles until the mage is bent over, heaving until he feels the burn building up in his throat and he's suddenly unable to keep anything down.

 

The acrid, vile stench on what little he had eaten before the fitting hits him, has him vomiting up the rest of what he drank. And if Bull's hands weren't keeping him up, Dorian's all but certain he would be falling into his own vomit.

 

After some minutes of emptying his stomach, the mage groans, leaning into Bull's side. “Please don't tell me I got any of it on you.”

 

“Pretty sure you missed my boots. But...uh, you may not want to look down at your robes...”

 

“ _Venhedis,_ this is Neromenian silk!” Dorian complains. “Mae will have my head if she gets word on what's become of her gift.”

 

“Splash some water on it and rub it out with your Vint-y magic.”

 

“This is _silk_!”

 

“You Vints use magic to keep your old buildings up,” Bull says, leading Dorian down a few steps, towards one of the side entrances into the main keep.

 

“That's _not_ how magic works. You can't just...”

 

But he has a sense that the Iron Bull really doesn't care for a lecture on the proper handling of finery. And he suspects the big ox is getting a kick out of teasing him so the mage sighs in exasperation, “I am surrounded by brutes. Barbaric brutes. What an absolute travesty.”

 

“Cut the dramatics. We're almost there.”

 

The dimly lit passage and dank smell has Dorian scrunching his nose, lifting his head from where it had been buried in the Qunari's side to peer down the hallway. His head is still spinning but his vision slowly adjusts to the low lighting, a torch crackling as they pass by it.

 

“You're taking me to your room,” the mage says, once he recognizes where he is.

 

The Iron Bull chose to bunk in the lower levels of the main keep, where low ranked captains also took refuge. ' _Keeps me closer to the grunts,_ ' he had once told Dorian, preferring to pass his days drinking and dining with the soldiers, sometimes skipping the mess hall completely to go to the tavern or to eat with the soldiers in the nearby encampment. The first time Bull brought Dorian down here, the Tevinter was put off by the austere quarters and damp smell that seemed to stick to everything. But after a while, he came to appreciate it as part of the Qunari's _charm_.

 

“You want me to drag you up three flights of stairs to your pretty, Vint-y silk bed?”

 

“Those silks are from Val Royeaux. At Madame de Fer's insistence,” Dorian answers, playing up his distaste. “The First Enchanter means well but there's no accounting for taste.”

 

“...right. Orlesian silk. Did you get the stains out of those ones?”

 

At the Qunari's lewd chuckle, the mage feels his cheeks heat, recalling the sole time he had brought the Iron Bull back to his room. But instead of letting the Qunari see him in a flustered state, the Tevinter opts for indignant. “Yes. With no help from you, you big lummox.”

 

Iron Bull opens the door and Dorian is grateful that there is a bed in sight, knowing he is in no state to try and tackle any stairs. His head is still heavy and his stomach hasn't quite settled yet, nor is he able to stand without assistance. With care that surprises Dorian, though it really shouldn't, Bull helps the mage out of his vomit stained robes, setting them aside on a table as the mage groans and flops down on the bed. It smells of Bull, a strong, earthy scent, familiar and comforting, and has the Tevinter curling up contently in the threadbare sheets.

 

The bed shifts as the Qunari settles in beside Dorian, the added weight causing a small dip in the hard mattress. Immediately, the awareness of a body beside him reminds the mage of his earlier venture, reason quite easy to ignore when he's gone too long without another's touch to coax him to the same bliss he's had to rely on hand alone to reach. He wants to feel the heat of someone else pressed against him, the build of euphoria as a lover rocks inside of him, cradles him, moans into his ear how _wonderful_ he feels, how _perfect_ he is.

 

_'Maker's breath, you feel so good...'_

 

Dorian rolls over, tucks into the Bull's side. Even as he hears a question leave the Qunari's lips, he places a hand on Bull's hip, drags it slowly up the the Qunari's chest, feels taut muscle ripple beneath his touch, scars old and some new, like exploring a city once called ' _home'_ after years of being away.

 

_The new scars after Adamant, fading wounds that mapped the Commander's chest. The mage commits each to memory, fingers tracing the curves and lines, misshapen flesh damaged because he hadn't been there to protect his Commander, because he had been stuck in Skyhold, silently raging and cursing Cullen for not writing him, for not—_

 

“Dorian?”

 

He shifts until he's on top of the Iron Bull, grinds down as he feels the Qunari's arousal awaken. But it doesn't matter that in his head, he's hearing Cullen gasp, aches the feel of a scarred lip against his because he's claiming the Qunari's in a heated kiss, rutting down on him, chasing the pain and ache of loss for something else entirely.

 

He remembers how good Cullen's hands had felt on him earlier that day, wants that feeling to return. Bull's hands have always been good, they can—

 

Strong hands hold him back, the kiss broken before it can deepen. Blearily, Dorian looks down at the single eye that's scrutinizing him, picking him apart, reading him with an ease that sees past every mask he has ever adorned, make him feel naked and exposed, secrets bared.

 

“What are you doing, Vint?” the Qunari asks.

 

The question puts Dorian off, has him huffing in annoyance.

 

“What does it look like I'm doing?”

 

But his response has the ex-ben hassrath frowning.

 

This is not how he expected this to go.

 

“It's been a while since we were last together like this,” Dorian continues, trying for a seductive purr. “And let's face it: we could both use it.”

 

The Qunari contemplates the mage's words for longer than the Tevinter likes. It's starting to kill the mood, has him shifting uncomfortably, his erection pressing against one that he feels is beginning to deflate. He attempts to move again, to rut his hips, but a strong grip on his waist keeps him in place.

 

“I'm always up for a fuck,” the Iron Bull decides, “ _if_ you're not thinking about Cullen.”

 

The bluntness of it is like a blade straight through the mage's chest, has his vision prickling before he can stop himself. He wants to be angry, hates himself from showing his hand so carelessly, but he feels the hurt and betrayal of the word _heartless_ cut him open with its serrated edge and he's left bleeding and wounded, dropping his head to the Bull's chest as a mournful shudder has his shoulders shaking.

 

The tears he can hold back. But it's knowing that Cullen _loves_ him, that the blasted fool thinks Dorian can be _enough_ , that makes the mage wish he was foolish and selfish enough to believe such words.

 

Who else has ever loved him?

 

Rilienus.

 

And Rilienus was dead.

 

"You really know how to kill the mood," Dorian says, attempting to laugh it off but hearing his voice crack.

 

Soothing hands rub his shoulders and the mage accepts the embrace that follows, resting his head on the Qunari's chest. It's all too raw, too fresh and even he can't pretend he would have felt anything other than crippling shame if Bull had taken him up on his offer.

 

"That's what I'm here for," the Iron Bull says, voice edged with mirth.

 

But there's an underlying concern for his friend that has him holding the mage tightly.

 

They stay like that for a long while.

 

After some time, Bull breaks the comfortable silence by saying, "You don't need to do this to yourself."

 

"It's not that simple," Dorian replies, lifting his head. He traces a large scar on the Qunari's chest, flesh long since healed after the arvaraad had carved the soulmark from Bull's flesh. The mage had asked about it not long after their first night of intimacy, to which Bull had simply shrugged and said, 'soulmarks have no place in the Qun'. It seemed the Qunari were as suspicious and distrustful of the marks as they were of magic.

 

"Because he's not your soulmate."

 

Hearing it out loud hurts, gives the words a credence he can't deny. It somehow makes it more real and he finds he can't answer right then, doesn't trust his voice to not break. So, he nods.

 

Seeing how upset Dorian is, Bull gently brushes a large thumb over the burn scar on the mage's right bicep. "You know, we're almost matching now."

 

It has its intended effect, Dorian releasing a small laugh. "And wouldn't my dear old father love that, if I bring you to Qarinus and declare I've found another soulmate."

 

"Fuck him," the Qunari answers and it makes the mage smile. "You know I'd do anything for you, Dorian."

 

"Except give me great pity sex while I'm blubbering over an ex-lover?"

 

But it's said with a levity that has both the mage and Qunari exchanging a smile.

 

“We had some great nights together, didn't we, Bull?”

 

“You're alright...for a Vint.”

 

“Alright?” Dorian asks, with mock offense. “Admit it: I'm the best you've ever had.”

 

“...hmm...”

 

Dorian sighs, flopping down dramatically beside the Qunari. “If this is how perfection is treated in the South, I'd best pack my bags and take the next ship to Tevinter. Clearly, you brutes have little esteem for the finer things life has to offer.”

 

“...mmm-hmm.”

 

“Day in and day out, I wake at the crack of dawn—”

 

“Huh? So 4 pm is the new 'dawn',” Bull muses, earning him a glare for interrupting the mage's rant.

 

“—douse myself in fine scents and oils, meticulously put myself together because if one is to assist in saving the world, they should very well look good doing it—”

 

“Nothing scares the shit out of demons like a mage wearing silky things.”

 

“—oh, would you let me finish, you inattentive ox!”

 

Bull gives the mage a toothy grin.

 

“...and to top it all off, I can't even rely on my best friend to stroke my ego and tell me how utterly and unequivocally handsome I am and how his life has changed for the better since my glorious self has become part of it.”

 

“...Dorian?”

 

“...yes?”

 

“Go to sleep already.”

 

Muttering about getting _no respect_ , Dorian feigns offense and rolls onto his side, his back facing the Iron Bull. But just before either of them can drift off to sleep, the dizziness of his waning inebriation fading as the heaviness of exhaustion settles over him, the mage hears Bull say, quietly, “Not sure what I would do without you, Dorian.”

 

Reaching back, the mage squeezes the Qunari's giant hand.

 

*

 

It's well into the mid-morning by the time Dorian awakes, rolling over groggily and curling against the warm body beside him. His head is throbbing fiercely, stomach still uneasy and throat burning with some acidic aftertaste from having been sick, but the urge to sleep longer prevails over his immediate discomfort. He welcomes the comfortable lull that envelopes him, beckoning him towards the Fade, ready to succumb and ignore the rather urgent voice in the back of his head. Sure, there are many things that still need doing but he has more than enough time to finish them before he departs for Orlais the next morning...

 

“ _Kaffas,_ I'm late!” he shouts, sitting up so abruptly, he elbows Bull in the side.

 

Bull opens his single eye, mouth curled in amusement as the mage crawls over him and all but falls off the bed. The hasty scramble that follows has the unhelpful Qunari chuckling as Dorian throws on his boots and attempts to pull on his vomit-stained robes. But after catching a good whiff of the sullied garment, Dorian tosses it back onto the table in disgust.

 

“Late for what?”

 

“A war table meeting,” the Tevinter says crassly, in no mood to waste more time. Clad in only trousers and boots, the mage stumbles as he makes for the only other piece of furniture—a large chest, clothing and armor thrown haphazardly into it—and begins tossing things out in his haste to find something that would fit. “And I can assure you that Lady Montilyet will feed me to the bloody wyverns if I show up late again.”

 

“...again?”

 

Dorian sniffs. “Some of us have appreciation for the little luxuries in life. Evidently, I am the only one among us who values a good night's sleep.”

 

“...you'd sleep 14 hours a day if Lavellan wasn't dragging you all over Thedas.”

 

“Again,” the mage snaps, clearly put off at Bull's teasing. In his defense, he has never claimed to be a morning person, “I _need_ my beauty sleep, something I wouldn't expect a half-naked barbarian to understand.”

 

“C'mon, Vint. We both know you like my guns,” Bull answers, winking coyly.

 

Dorian rolls his eyes but finds his lip twitching in a small smile. Hiding it behind a rough cough, he picks up one of the few shirts he found, and shows it to the Qunari.

 

“Think this will fit?”

 

“One of the scouts left that here,” Bull says, grinning lewdly. “ _After_ we fucked.”

 

“Really? And here I thought you had gained three sizes since joining the Inquisition,” Dorian says, sarcastically. He crinkles his nose as he gets a better look at the garment and tosses it to the floor. “Ugh. Plaidweave.”

 

“Uh...not so sure now's the best time to be choosy.”

 

“I have standards, Bull. That I'm even thinking of wearing one of your paramour's cast offs should be all the evidence you need of how low I've sunk. How about this one?”

 

“That one's yours.”

 

Dorian looks down at the simple, black undershirt, lifting a brow. “Hmm? So that's where that went.”

 

It is as nondescript as the others he wore, often donned under his silk robes or with other layers thrown over it. He doesn't have time to fuss much longer and puts it on, trying not to stare at his bared right arm. He has nothing to cover his soulmark with and knowing it would be visible, a blemish upon his skin for everyone to gaze upon, feels worse than the humiliation of entering a meeting with the Inquisition's advisers far later than what's considered fashionable.

 

He stands, squirms a little uncomfortably and feels his hand reach for and cover the mark on his arm. The raised flesh beneath his palm is still strange to him, marring the head of the snake but having it out there for all eyes to see makes him feel trepidation, as if he's about to walk halfway across the keep completely naked. That almost seems preferable.

 

“Here,” Bull says.

 

Dorian's not certain when the Qunari got out of bed and glances up in surprise as Bull gently pushes his hand aside and wraps white cloth over the mark, securing it carefully in place. Like dressing a wound.

 

The mage's gaze softens as he stares up at his friend. “Thank you.”

 

They both exchange a smile.

 

“Now, tell me honestly: how do I look?”

 

“Honestly? Like you had the best and worst fucking night of your life.”

 

He manages to wipe away most of his smeared kohl, rinses his mouth to rid himself of the acrid taste of booze and vomit, and settles for taming the stubble growing in after he attends the meeting. With a few words of gratitude offered to Bull, Dorian's out the door and walking hastily up the stairs towards the main hall. He can't quite bring himself to run because...well, he's a _Pavus_ , after all, and appearing in such a state is embarrassing enough, never mind working himself into a sweat—but by the time he's in the hallway leading to the war council room, he's struggling to keep his breath even, lest he appear winded.

 

“Lord Pavus, Lady Montilyet has been expec—”

 

“Yes, I know,” Dorian snaps to the poor sentry.

 

The woman only just manages to hold back a scowl as she opens the door for him, though he sees the look she gives her companion standing across from her. Normally, the mage would immediately soothe things over with an apology as he's fully aware he's not exactly the kindest person at this hour of the morning but he's already stepped into the lions' den and the tension in the room has all thoughts of offending Inquisition soldiers buried beneath the withering glare he's receiving.

 

Josephine Montilyet, for all the grace and etiquette she's learned in her time in the Antivan and Orlesian courts, looks ready to murder him. Gone are the tight smiles and customary pleasantries she would use when addressing someone who's made some transgression against her careful scheduling.

 

“Inquisitor, Lady Montilyet,” Dorian begins, nodding politely to both of them. From the corner of his eye, he sees a wine-colored cloak, knows the Commander is standing off to the other side of the Seeker. But he can't face him, doesn't turn to address him, not when the last time those honey-colored eyes had turned their gaze upon him, the mage had rejected the Fereldan's affection with a cruelty that left him as broken as it had Cullen.

 

“You must forgive me for being—”

 

“I have little patience for your apologies, Dorian,” Josephine interrupts, her tone cutting. “I sent three runners— _three!—_ all over Skyhold looking for you. You knew how important this meeting was! Where in the name of Andraste were you?”

 

Dorian colors, years of his mother and father's cold criticism and harsh lessons, words that carved and shaped all of Dorian's edges until he learned to school a demeanor that made him difficult to read, all forgotten under the unexpected ire coming from his friend's scrutiny. He blurts the first thing he thinks—words he immediately regrets—in an attempt to diminish some of the tension. “I wasn't in my room last night.”

 

“That much has become painfully obvious. Neither were you in the library or the mess hall. Where must I send my runners next time you can't be bothered to show up?”

 

“With all due respect, Ambassador, where Dorian spends his evenings is of no relevance to this meeting,” a voice cuts in.

 

He looks over at Cullen, wishing to express gratitude with a glance, surprised that the Commander is coming to his defense. But all it takes is that half second: brown eyes meet his, scarred lip twitching to keep from pulling into a frown, the Fereldan taking in Dorian's disheveled appearance before he's forced to look away, unable to hide the _hurt_ that splashes across his face.

 

To everyone in the room, it must look like the mage had a rather _enjoyable_ evening the night before.

 

To Cullen, it must look like Dorian had fucked someone not hours after the Commander's hands and lips had been on the mage's skin, as if to show how little the Fereldan meant to the Tevinter.

 

If shame had the power to cripple and kill, Dorian would have experienced death a thousand times over with a look alone.

 

“Perhaps onto more pressing matters, Josie,” Leliana says, though the sharp glance she makes at Dorian lets him know he is not off the hook.

 

An apology is offered, quick and empty, before the Ambassador returns to the discussion the mage had walked in on, regarding the route to be taken through Orlais to Halamshiral. Chairs abandoned as everyone stands around the war table, a visual representation of the Inquisition's growing presence across Thedas laid out before them, Dorian situates himself closer to Varric, leaving a large berth of space between him and the Commander on his left side. Though Josephine dominates most of the discussion, relaying invitations from numerous noble houses to use their roads and lodgings, Cullen has to intervene at times to remind the other advisers that the Inquisition presence in areas such as Emprise du Lion remains controversial and though they may be well-received by the nobility, the villagers in such territories will feel otherwise.

 

It's politics at its best, downright irritating at its worst. Dorian follows all of it with the same detached interest he had been forced to endure at his mother's dinner parties as each of the Inner Circle offers their opinion on how to navigate the minefield of thin-skinned nobles ready to take any offense should one house be chosen to play host for an evening over another. Cassandra and Cullen wish to avoid noble houses entirely, Josephine is looking for opportunities to curry more favor, Leliana to spy, and Varric and the Inquisitor look ready to pass out from boredom. The one time Dorian had hoped his slight against the Ambassador was forgotten and he made a quip about the de Chalons earned him a glare from the woman in question, so he spends the remainder of the debate silent, arms crossed over his chest and trying not to shiver.

 

There's a reason he always throws on robes and leather garments over the thin tunic he's wearing. And, a possibly more egregious offense, he's starting to regret having tossed aside the thicker plaideweave shirt he had found in Bull's chest. Absolutely hideous and it really had smelled like it had endured a night of sweaty ox sex but, _venhedis_ , is the keep always this bloody cold or—

 

Something warm settles over his shoulders, the scent of elderflower and oakmoss hitting his nose as dark fur tickles his chin. The disruption of his internal rant has his mind reeling as the mage grasps at the cloak, draws it tighter around his shoulders, the familiarity of the gesture reminding him of the last time he had felt it covering his exposed skin.

 

“ _It's freezing in here.”_

 

“ _You're the one who's been waiting up here in nothing but his smalls,” Cullen says, lips curling in a bemused smirk._

 

_Dorian folds his arms over his bare chest, huffing indignantly. “And this is the thanks I get for freezing my arse off. I was hoping you'd show a bit more appreciation for the sexy gift I've offered you. Perhaps next time, I should roll around in the muck with mabari since evidently, that is what it takes to get a Fereldan's attention.”_

 

“ _We've mabari at the keep?”_

 

_Dorian scowls._

 

_With a laugh, Cullen removes his cloak and throws it around the mage's shoulders. Dorian makes a sound of protest, the Tevinter appearing aghast at having that hideous fur anywhere near his face but he silently admits it is warm and lets the Fereldan adjust it so it sits more comfortably._

 

“ _Covering up 'your gift'? Commander, how am I to respond to this slight against my visage?” the mage teases._

 

_Not to his surprise, Cullen's face heats. But there's a hunger in his eyes as he sweeps his gaze down the mage, drinking in the sight of the Tevinter. Dorian looks good, he has no doubt of that, and he'd easily endure wearing gaudy fur if it makes the Commander all the more willing to ravish him._

 

“ _You're cold and I...rather like the way it looks on you.”_

 

_Throwing his arms around the Commander's neck, Dorian leans in close, lips brushing the tip of Cullen's ear.“Then perhaps you'd best undress and show me just how much you like seeing me wear this Maker-awful rag.”_

 

_He bites playfully at the lobe, hears something of a growl coming from the other man. It has heat pooling low in his chest, blood rushing down to his groin, his arousal awakening as Cullen's hands fall to the mage's hips and tugs him closer. Pressed against Cullen, he can feel how much the Fereldan wants him and it suddenly made the last hour of waiting for the Commander to return from his meeting in that drafty loft worth it._

 

“ _Once my armor's removed, I intend on fully enjoying my 'gift'—while you're wearing my 'Maker-awful' rag,” Cullen promises._

 

_And it was one promise kept as they went three times that evening._

 

There's a hand on his back, a touch that lingers. And then, it's gone.

 

Dorian glances to the side, sees the Commander retreating, this time, widening the previous space between them as he goes to the other side of Cassandra.

 

Cullen still won't look at him.

 

“Are you listening, Dorian?”

 

Despite appearances, he has been paying attention. Somewhat. So, he guesses at what turn their discussion has taken, with the same, flippant air he often reserved for the frivolities of higher society.

 

“Comte something or other is miffed that the Inquisitor has yet to respond to his requests for a dance at Halamshiral as the entirety of his evening wardrobe is dependent on how she answers: hideous bright crimson Inquisition colors, should she agree, or maudlin hues of navy, should his request be rejected,” Dorian replies, glibly.

 

The Seeker snorts to hide her laughter.

 

Josephine glares.

 

“No offense, Ruffles, but do you really think Sparkler here has anything to say about which nobles the Inquisitor should dance with at Halamshiral? Hell, you dance with one, you piss off five others. You may as well have some fun with it and pick the one wearing the most frilly mask.”

 

“This is why we must discuss this now,” Josephine insists. “We must decide—”

 

“Ooh, how about the one with the most feathers? Makes you wonder what fowl they're hunting to find feathers that bright,” Lavellan adds.

 

“I say any noble caught wearing plaidweave should have to dance with you, Inquisitor,” Dorian says. “The punishment fits the crime in fashion.”

 

“She's still that bad, huh?” Varric says, with a smirk.

 

“That bad? Atrocious is more accurate. My feet have yet to recover.”

 

“Hey, if you weren't such a demanding instructor—”

 

“Enough!”

 

Everyone looks across the table to see Josephine pinching the bridge of her nose. “This is getting us no closer to deciding how the Inquisitor should spend her time at the Winter Palace.”

 

“Funny, I was under the impression we were going to stop an assassination plot,” Lavellan whispers to Varric.

 

The dwarf snickers. “Quiet, Inquisitor. I think Ruffles is gonna murder us.”

 

“Let's move on. We'll sort out any further details regarding the ball once we've departed from Skyhold.”

 

The ambassador begins discussing the schedule for the next morning and Dorian once again finds his thoughts drifting, fingers idly touching the inner lining of the cloak.

 

*

 

With the meeting over, most of the room's occupants leave. Josephine's the first one out, followed by Leliana, both advisers engaged in a low discussion. Cassandra's next, Varric hot on her heels and making some quip about dancing together at Halamshiral, earning him a murderous glare and a sound of visible disgust from the Seeker.

 

“Admit it, Seeker: We'll dance circles around Marquis whats-his-face.”

 

“I've too much respect for my toes to subject them to yet another dance with you, dwarf.”

 

“Ouch, right in the heart!”

 

“Maker, give me strength,” she sighs.

 

At the opposite side of the table, Lavellan and Cullen are discussing something, the Commander pointing to the map. Dorian still has the cloak and knows now is the best time to make his retreat: leave the garment on the table, exit before he has to face further scrutiny and guilt for his appearance this morning. But the very least Cullen deserves, if not an outright apology for what Dorian had let happen the day before, are words of gratitude for having lent his cloak to perhaps the last person in the keep who deserves the Fereldan's kindness.

 

So he waits, chest tight, looking down at his corner of the table. The edges of Avaar territory, what little is known, mapped out beyond the Fereldan border. He traces his finger absently over the range of mountains, waits to hear words of parting from either the Inquisitor or Commander. He tries his best to not appear as if he's eavesdropping, not that he has that much interest in listening to them discuss outposts in the Western Approach.

 

_Kaffas,_ he would give up his fine silks to never have to go back to that blasted place.

 

“We can discuss making more outposts on the way to Halamshiral,” the Inquisitor offers.

 

Dorian glances up but it's a mistake. He sees the Inquisitor place her hand on the Commander's arm, a gesture that would seem innocuous and friendly enough. It's something that has always been a bit of a culture shock for the mage, the way people in the south are so open with affection, unlike in Tevinter where every touch, every gesture, is calculated and scrutinized. It makes jealousy burn hot in his chest, unexpected _hurt_ he knows he has no right to feel fester and burn beneath the placid expression he forces himself to wear.

 

And when Cullen smiles back at her, Dorian feels an anger towards Lavellan that has him dropping his eyes guiltily.

 

He remembers his accusing words the day before, of the pair sharing an intimacy the Commander has yet to admit to. And though everything about their interactions indicates the opposite, that Lavellan still has no idea she and Cullen share the same mark, the less rational side of Dorian broils with resentment towards her that no logic can quell.

 

“Dorian, if you have time later, perhaps you'll stop by my room?” the Inquisitor says.

 

It disrupts the mage from his bitter thoughts and he forces a smile. “If I manage to finish packing. I have yet to decide which robes to bring and you do know how long I spend carefully selecting my wardrobe.”

 

“As long as you don't over pack this time: Bull won't be there to carry your things.”

 

“I am certain the Seeker can be persuaded to help a fellow friend.”

 

Lavellan doesn't seem convinced. “Didn't she threaten to throw your traveling pack in the nearest bear den if you ever again ask her to carry your things?”

 

“She jests. She adores me too much to subject me to bears.”

 

The Inquisitor appears incredibly skeptical but seems to accept his answer. “I'll see you later, Dorian.”

 

“Inquisitor.”

 

With the Inquisitor gone, Dorian is left alone in the war room with Cullen. Door shut behind her, offering both of them privacy, the tension the mage had attempted to ease with his recent levity returns and he's trying to remind himself to _breathe,_ even as his lungs feel like they're being squeezed and his _flight_ response is urging his feet to move.

 

He looks at Cullen. Cullen, who has shifted awkwardly close but keeps his gaze to the floor, hand scratching the back of his neck. The corner of his lip twitches but words fail to come as the Commander remains silent.

 

“Your cloak,” Dorian finally says, shrugging it off. The loss of the Commander's scent is palpable, the mage stripping away a part of himself as he hands the _Maker-awful rag_ back to its owner. But all the pieces of his affection had been shattered the moment he saw the mark on Lavellan and since then, it's been a silent battle of shedding away the last of it until he's left with a loneliness that grows each day they remain apart. “I...thank you. For letting me use it. It's always dreadfully cold in here.”

 

“You needed it more than I,” Cullen says, noncommittally.

 

He utters Dorian's name in parting, a tragic note that ripples with loss that the mage feels echoing in his own chest. He needs to do something—say _something—_ to make things right because if he's to spend the next few weeks traveling to and from Halamshiral with Cullen, they need to at least be amicable and not weighed down with hurt that has them unable to even look at each other.

 

He follows Cullen out into the hallway, calls out to him, even as his own voice wavers. “Commander.”

 

He stops, turns, and looks at Dorian for the first time since the Tevinter had stumbled in late to the meeting.

 

Never has the mage seen the ex-templar look so despondent. Not even in the few times he witnessed Cullen struggle to not succumb to lyrium in the last year, an issue the Commander rarely spoke openly about. He looks as if he's lost _everything._

 

It makes Dorian's anger the night before at being called ' _heartless'_ appear juvenile in comparison.

 

“Is there something you need, Lord Pavus?”

 

The sentries are not far from them and though they don't make it obvious, the mage can tell this exchange has caught their interest. He tries not to color, keeps his voice steady as he attempts to bury his pride and seek the courage to say what needs to be said.

 

“About the other day...”

 

His voice trails and he mutters in Tevene. Dorian's not a dishonest person, choosing to elude truth than to outright tell lies. Yet he's become so proficient at avoiding certain truths, he sometimes finds he cannot acknowledge them, even when they sit on the tip of his tongue.

 

_I love you, too, Amatus,_ he wants to say.

 

_And I'm sorry for acting like a heartless shrew. But there's only one way this can end and you know this is how it has to be._

 

He feels a gentle touch, fingers brushing against his and if anyone asked him, Dorian would be unable to say for certain whose fingers had sought whose first. But that is how they've always been: two forces that should repel each other but find instead that they are inexplicably drawn towards one another, always finding a way of breaching physical space. He shouldn't allow this, shouldn't torture Cullen any more than he already has. Yet nothing can convince him to pull his hand away, the longing he feels for the Commander's touch rooting the mage where he stands.

 

He swallows hard. Pauses. Tries again.

 

“I—”

 

“Apologies, Lord Pavus. From the Iron Bull.”

 

Cullen's hand retracts instantly, leaving Dorian's cold and abandoned. The mage directs a glare at the scout who's interrupted them but when he sees what the scout is holding—his silk robe from the night before—Dorian accepts it silently, embarrassment causing his cheeks to fill as this awkward exchange is now being viewed by three witnesses.

 

He turns back to the Commander but there's a coldness to the Fereldan's eyes, his expression hard. His gaze drops to the garment Dorian holds and back to the mage's face, making the connection.

 

“I see,” he says. Then, with more vitriol than courtesy, adds,“Give the Iron Bull my regards” turning on his heel and leaving before the mage has a chance to explain.

 

Dorian can already feel the protest sitting on his tongue, every excuse he can utter ready to tumble from his lips. But even he is made humbled, not by what had happened, but by what he had _wanted_ to happen.

 

_We didn't fuck,_ he could say.

 

But he would have, if Bull had been complying.

 

_I hadn't done it out of spite!_

 

But wasn't it anger and hurt for being called out on his behavior that led him to drink and seek out another companion?

 

_I love you._

 

But if he has any right to those words, would he so selfishly guard his heart when Cullen had so openly offered his?

 

So, instead, Dorian remains, watching as the man who is his everything, his _Amatus,_ walks away, and he is left silenced by his shame.

 


	4. Impetus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Halamshiral, things finally come to a head in a tête-à-tête that finds both Cullen and Dorian in the middle of the dance floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to give a big thanks to [Kalisca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalisca) for helping me with the French that comes up in this chapter. And for talking me out of an angsty ending. I'm sure everyone at this point has grown equally as frustrated by Dorian and Cullen's failure to have a meaningful and honest conversation.
> 
> Please refer to the tags before reading. By now, most of you know what this story is about so you can probably anticipate the kind of angst that will come up. Any and all errors in spelling/grammar are my own since this fic has not been beta-read.
> 
> Happy reading!

_Halamshiral_

_The Winter Palace_

 

Music. Wine. Scandalous whispers that cling to the gilded walls. A sea of masks scattered throughout the large ballroom. The Inquisition has found itself in the heart of Orlais, in a room filled with the nation's elite, where titles are as numerous as their meanings hollow. During the night, Cullen has heard them all, from Barons to Marquises, and he is no more better at remembering who outranks who than he is stuttering out a phrase in Orlesian.

 

Is he to say _enchant_ _é_ after an introduction or to excuse himself from an uncomfortable conversation? Because he's had many an uncomfortable conversation and so far, his incoherent babbling has only earned him a pinch on his rear and a few coy winks.

 

Andraste preserve him, never has he felt least in his element than when under the scrutiny of faceless nobles with intentions he suspects are far less than 'noble'.

 

“Commander,” someone calls him and he nearly breathes a sigh in relief.

 

Finally. Someone to rescue him from the current group of vultures.

 

He allows himself to be dragged away from his admirers, face having gone a deep shade of scarlet that he's fairly certain he's been wearing all evening. As the Seeker beckons him closer to the wall, away from the curious glances the pair are receiving, Cullen smiles at his friend, feeling for the first time that evening that he can actually stop and _breathe._

 

“Cassandra, am I quite relieved to see—”

 

“Have you seen the dwarf?” she demands, cutting him off.

 

He sees the scowl on her lips, the tautness in her shoulders. Cassandra Pentaghast is _pissed_ and the only thing preventing her from barreling through the people crowding the upper level in search of Varric is her promise to Josephine to be on her 'best behavior'.

 

Cullen deflates. “I can't say that I have. Not since the start of the evening. Perhaps—”

 

“I am going to kill that dwarf when I find him!” Cassandra hisses, turning abruptly and weaving hastily through the crowd.

 

The Commander attempts to follow her, having lost interest in his forced mingling hours before, but the Seeker is gone before his feet catch up with his brain and begin moving.

 

“Oh, Commander,” a few voices giggle.

 

A gloved hand on his arm stops his retreat and the Fereldan is forced to swallow a groan.

 

Maker help him, he's not certain how much more of this he can bear.

 

_O Maker, hear my cry: Guide me through the blackest nights,_ Cullen recites in his head as he is once again dragged back into the group of nobles.

 

*

 

He throws back another flute of champagne, vows he made earlier to avoid drinking quickly forgotten when he's surrounded by eyes that see everything, aristocrats waiting to pick apart every one of his words, his gestures. They watch, waiting for him to falter, pleasantries uttered in Common but damning accusations whispered in Orlesian, Dorian too self-conscious to give away his fluency in the nation's mother tongue.

 

“ _I heard he's no longer heir to the Pavus seat,”_ one woman whispers, the feathers protruding from the sides of her mask making her appear more hawkish. _“Some falling out with his family.”_

 

“ _Perhaps that is why he seeks the Inquisitor's attention,”_ the Compte she's conversing with replies, disdain dripping in his voice. _“Riding the coattails of her accomplishments, how utterly sad.”_

 

“ _Some people will do anything for attention,”_ another noble adds.

 

And instead of making some clever remark in Orlesian, _Ce que tout le monde dit doit_ _ê_ _tre vrai_ _,_ Dorian turns to drinking, the alcohol calming his anxiety as he carries himself with an air of ennui. He toys with the idea of heading back outside to toss a caprice coin in the fountain, already regretting not tagging along with Lavellan when she announced she was to climb up to a lattice to find a way into the library. But the whispers seemed louder outside, perhaps due to less conversations filtering each other out, and with many having noticed how quickly the Dalish Inquisitor makes herself scarce and aborts small talk, her absence is already a hot conversation starter and Dorian does not wish to add more to their disapproval by disappearing as well.

 

So, he bears it, laughing along with idle remarks when dragged into conversation, smiling through his teeth when he has to endure a line of questioning on the Commander's marital status, and humors the few flirtatious comments offered by attention-seeking women, anything to make the evening pass quickly.

 

_Venhedis,_ why hadn't he talked himself out of coming and convinced Lavellan to bring Vivienne instead?

 

“An Altus in a soldier's uniform? You must feel quite outside your element, Lord Pavus.”

 

Dorian places his empty flute on the tray of a passing servant, opting to avoid taking another. He's not drunk but quickly getting there and decides keeping some of his wits about him, while enjoying a rather pleasant buzz, is enough...for the time being.

 

“Unfortunately, my request to be adorned in robes bearing Tevinter insignia, followed by an entourage of my favored slaves, was denied,” Dorian says, feigning a sigh. “Such is the treatment us ' _evil magisters'_ must endure when the Herald is of Dalish origin. It would be in poor taste, you see.”

 

The woman laughs gaily, a sound that lilts like birdsong. He recognizes the coy tone she employs, whimsical in demeanor, a viper taking its time before it sinks its teeth in for the kill. Immediately, he identifies the lion-like mask she wears, heraldry worn by the de Chevin family. He's only had the pleasure of meeting one other de Chevin, a rather handsome man set out on some honor-bound quest to hunt a desire demon in Emprise du Lion, and he wishes it was Michel de Chevin he was conversing with instead of this woman whose interest in him has the mage on his guard.

 

“I must admit, while being privy to the rumors, I hadn't quite expected the Herald to appear so... _indigène_ ,” the woman says.

 

Dorian has to keep from bristling at the veiled insult, though he can't say he is willing to show as much self-control if she starts tossing around racial slurs. For now, he remains politely cautious, mimicking the woman's carefree tone. “I don't believe we've had the pleasure of a formal introduction, Lady...”

 

“Arielle de Chevin,” she replies, extending her gloved hand as Dorian accepts it. If memory serves him correctly, he is in the presence of the Marquis de Chevin's niece and bows his head respectfully, placing the barest of a kiss upon her clothed knuckles. He spent enough time in his youth traveling to Orlais with his family, kissed many a hand from a noble house and endured open displays of physical contact, though he still found the customs quite alien to his Tevinter upbringing.

 

She smiles, the lower part of her face the only part visible, besides the emerald eyes burning with curiosity behind her mask.

 

Her soulmark, a dove midflight, is left exposed on the right side of her neck. Yet another of the southern customs that always makes Dorian feel a bit more foreign.

 

“ _Enchanté_ , Lady Arielle,” he says, opting to use her first name, opening the conversation for friendly familiarity. “Dorian of House Pavus, at your service.”

 

Her approval is given in the lifting of her rose-tinted lips.

 

“You must excuse my curiosity, Lord Pavus. But one can't help but notice that you've resigned yourself to the Guest Wing for most of the evening. Do the intrigues of Orlesian society bore you such or have you grown that fond of the austere décor?”

 

Comparatively, the Guest Wing décor lacks the vibrant hues of the ballroom but Dorian could give two shits how Empress Celene chooses to decorate the many rooms of her palace. Lady de Chevin is fishing for something and until she shows her hand, the mage will just have to play along.

 

“I admit that the opulent tastes of Orlais are often lost on my brutish Tevinter ways,” Dorian replies, glibly. “Throw a lion on it, it's Orlesian. Add a dragon, it's Tevinter. That's about the extent of my knowledge on décor.”

 

“You don't find the gold and royal blue drapes horribly _gauche_? Some may say it's a bit too...Blessed Age. Zaffre has been all the rage in Val Royeux this spring and would add a nice, contemporary touch to the _palais._ ”

 

Right. Like he's that naive to be caught insulting the Empress' tastes. And yes, the drapes are tragically _gauche_ , but he's not about to fall into her trap.

 

“Perhaps I'm rather conservative in my tastes,” he answers easily. “I find the drapery adds a charming touch to the room.”

 

He sees from the near hidden smile she offers that he's passed her test. There's a minuscule easing of her posture, a gentleness to the light touch of her hand on his arm that welcomes his confidence, and he allows her to link her arm through his, guiding him towards the ballroom as she continues their conversation.

 

“The Inquisition has made quite an impression this evening. My uncle had mentioned who was to accompany the Herald but there was little that could prepare me for how fascinating you and your companions are. Ambassador Montilyet is positively delightful and the Left Hand of the Divine very poised. One isn't surprised to hear she once served in the court itself.”

 

“Our Nightingale is the picture of elegance.”

 

“Though, I believe it is your Commander who is capturing most of the court's hearts this evening. Few had anticipated such a handsome face from such humble origins.”

 

Despite his best efforts, the mage tenses at the mention of his former lover, the very reason he's had little interest in remaining in the ballroom all evening. Little words passed between them, beyond forced platitudes, on their journey to Halamshiral and Dorian was fortunate enough that Cullen remained with their armed forces for most of that time, meaning he saw little of the Commander anyway.

 

But watching as women and men alike openly fawned over the man, now unattached and available to indulge any offer he deems to his liking, has left a bad taste in Dorian's mouth and he cared little to see who would drag the ex-templar onto the dance floor, cares little now to see how much larger his group of admirers has gotten.

 

“There's a...charm, to his unwieldy nature,” Lady de Chevin continues, her gaze cutting across the ballroom as they enter, lips quirking in amusement.

 

But what passes for entertainment for the Orlesian noble is anything but amusing for the Altus. He notices a man conferring quietly with the Commander and whatever he's said has the Fereldan blushing so violently, Dorian's half surprised the Commander is not passing out from all the blood rushing to his face. He's no more righteous in his anger than he is in any silent claim he wishes to make on the ex-templar and he struggles to keep his voice even as he responds to his companion.

 

“Fereldans are charming; in their own, uncouth way,” he adds, blandly. “If one can look past their coarse conduct. And their mabari.”

 

_Kaffas_ , is he really trapped in a conversation with yet another of the Commander's admirers, looking to fish information from him before they throw themselves at the Fereldan's feet?

 

“I love a mabari as much as the next Orlesian. Their loyalty makes for reliable companionship, if one seeks a pet that will yip at their heels and offer blind servitude” she says, the dig at Fereldans not lost on Dorian. “However, my tastes are a bit less conventional as I find myself much more interested in taming a dragon. I rather enjoy a good challenge.”

 

Her fingers slide meaningfully along the inner length of his arm, stopping at the edge where his glove folds over the crimson sleeve of his coat. She gives him a smirk that is more devious than playful and his mind races to make the connections, quickly realizing his misstep when he assumed she has eyes for the Commander.

 

Well... _fuck._

 

*

 

“ _Mais_ , Commander, I insist. It would be most egregious if you spend the entirety of your evening hiding up here. You must do me the honor of sharing your first dance,” Comptesse something or other says, her name long since forgotten moments after she began hounding Cullen earlier in the night.

 

“He shall do no such thing! Not until he has had the chance take me across the dance floor,” another woman cuts in, scarlet lips pulling in a coy smile. “I imagine you must dance most wonderfully, Commander.”

 

He's been dreading this moment all night, when playful banter and veiled invitations for 'after hour' festivities would shift to something more... _physical._ He can manage a basic Orlesian waltz but even his stiff movements and awkward transition between steps leaves a lot to be desired, so much so that when Josephine had witnessed the fruit of his efforts, she had sighed and said, “Perhaps you had best avoid dancing”, much to Cullen's relief.

 

Now, with hungry eyes on him, each waiting for him to make a choice, Cullen is so tongue-tied, he can hardly utter a coherent answer.

 

“I—uh—well...th-that is—”

 

“Mademoiselles, you pose quite the conundrum to our esteemed guest. How is he to satisfy both your demands when you squabble over him like two hens?” Lord de...something says, settling a hand too low on Cullen's backside for the Commander's comfort. “It appears you have your pick of the litter, Commander: many a lady, and _gentleman,_ wishing to be your _first._ How is one to respond with so many options?”

 

It only serves to fluster the Commander further, who attempts to side step out of the lord's curious touch. “I...uh, w-well...y-you see—”

 

“Commander, a word.”

 

Oh, thank the Maker!

 

Cullen excuses himself immediately, coloring as a string of giggles trail him as the Inquisitor motions him over. Tucked away in a private corner one more, not nearly far enough from the many nobles he wishes never to see again, he tries not to let his relief show too emphatically. Lavellan's eyes wander across the room, searching, seeking, but as the Fereldan joins her, she raises her brows at the group not lingering far from where they stand.

 

“I take it you're having a wonderful night?” she teases.

 

Cullen mutters a sound in frustration, lowering his voice to avoid having his complaints overheard. “Maker's breath, it has been anything but. Have you learned anything? Is Gaspard intending to strike against the Empress? What of Briala? Have you need of any assistance?”

 

_Please take me with you,_ he wants to beg, near ready to drop to his knees and prostrate himself, if that's what it takes for Lavellan to whisk him away from the nobles.

 

“And deprive your fan club of their favorite Fereldan? I wouldn't dream of it,” Lavellan answers, looking far too bemused for Cullen's liking.

 

The Commander scowls but before he can voice any further grievance over being assigned to 'mingle', Lavellan's attention is once again sweeping over the ballroom. “I sent Cassandra earlier to find Varric and she has yet to return. I need someone to help me follow up on a lead in the servant's quarters.”

 

“I'll go,” Cullen immediately offers.

 

“Nonsense. It will look too suspicious if the Commander of our forces is caught snooping around the palace,” Lavellan says, sounding so much like Leliana in her sensibility, it only darkens Cullen's mood further, reminding him of how he got assigned to the ballroom in the first place.

 

_Just stand there and look pretty. Oh, and try not to look so put off by everything. Don't forget to smile, Commander,_ Leliana had teased.

 

Do his closest friends really care so little for his suffering?

 

“Have you seen Dorian?” Lavellan asks, cutting off the Commander's bitter train of thought.

 

He's about to answer in the negative when he catches sight of the mage, arms linked with a young woman, her body pressed in close enough to the Tevinter to suggest more than friendly intimacy, as they descend towards the dance floor. Cullen's initial reaction is resentment towards the masked woman, though reason tells him Dorian has no interest in engaging in more than playful flirtation with the fairer sex. But further scrutiny of the way the mage carries himself: smile polite but thin, posture perfect but stiff, gives away the man's discomfort, hidden beneath an air of playful nonchalance.

 

Dorian's as put off by his forced mingling as Cullen has been all evening.

 

“It seems he's about to dance with someone.”

 

The Commander tilts his head to indicate where the mage is, remembering all of Leliana and Josephine's previous warnings to not point at anyone. The Inquisitor frowns.

 

“Now he chooses to dance? I must get to him before the next song starts.”

 

She makes to leave but is stopped as Leliana joins the pair.

 

“Inquisitor, you must tell me how your evening has been? Did you enjoy your tour of the garden?” their spymaster asks, carefree smile on her face, though her eyes remain sharp.

 

It's damage control, intended to be overheard, offering explanation for Lavellan's absence from the ballroom thus far. Lavellan answers in the affirmative, thanking Leliana for the caprice coins she had been given, and once pleasantries are exchanged, the spymaster's voice drops to a whisper. “A moment, if you have the time.”

 

“Of course. Cullen, perhaps you can get Dorian? Tell him I'll meet him in the Hall of Heroes.”

 

Lavellan follows after Leliana before Cullen can answer, though one glance over his shoulder at the nobles waiting for the next opportunity to sink their manicured claws into him, has his mind already made up for him. He weaves his way through the crowd, pretending not to overhear the few requests he receives to join in conversations, no longer caring if he's breaking court etiquette. If he stopped to address everyone, it would take at least a solid half hour before he would find himself at the top of the stairs and he's had enough banal conversation this evening to last him a lifetime.

 

As he descends down towards the ballroom dance floor, the sound of stringed instruments crescendos and he has some sense that the current song is reaching its climax. Pairs linger, waiting for their opportunity to join in the next song. Dorian is to the side of the dance floor, not far from the foot of the staircase, laughing at some remark the woman has made. It's a cordial sound, lacking in the rich throatiness of when the mage is caught off guard and genuinely is unable to contain his mirth, but still it makes something heavy settle in the Commander's chest.

 

Weeks since Dorian once again rejected him, since the mage had all but confirmed he's already seeking other bedmates.

 

How long is Cullen to make himself suffer for a man who clearly has no interest in being with him anymore?

 

Jealousy and bitterness are all he's carried since that last confrontation and despite what he has promised himself about moving on, the Fereldan knows he hasn't tried. He knows it's unfair, that the mage is free to be with anyone else, and that ignoring Dorian's decision not only hurts Cullen but disrespects the mage's choice.

 

And Dorian _didn't_ choose Cullen.

 

So, the Commander does the one thing he has not been able to: he swallows his pride and approaches the pair, fully intending on being genuinely civil.

 

“—the next dance is soon to start.”

 

“And once again, I must decline: it would be dreadfully rude of me to accept such an offer, as fair and delightful as the company has been thus far,” the mage says, his coquettish smile easing some of the woman's displeasure. “For, you see, I had promised that I would—Commander! You're just in time!”

 

Cullen's surprise at being forced into the conversation has him blinking owlishly at the mage. “I...yes?”

 

With a carefree laugh, the mage rests his hand on the low of the Commander's back, a gesture that not only shocks the Fereldan, who has seen the mage flinch away from even the most innocent of friendly physical contact when in front of an audience, but also has the Commander's face once again growing hot, the touch as welcome as the Lord's had not been. “Our dear Commander would forget his own handsome head if it wasn't attached to those rugged shoulders of his! Please, do not tell me you've forgotten our earlier promise, that you would share your first dance with me. You are quite the tease, making a man wait as long as I have in that dreadful guest wing. I swear, I was absolutely wilting from your neglect. Luckily, the lovely Lady de Chevin has proven to be quite amiable company.”

 

...tease?

 

Wait...is Dorian openly flirting with him?

 

Cullen scratches the back of his neck, face so hot, he's avoiding the urge to tug at the collar of his dress coat. He attempts to answer and makes a sound so garbled, it isn't quite a word.

 

He can't see the look the woman is giving him but he imagines it's one of extreme disbelief, if the tight line of her lips is anything to go by.

 

“The Commander seems out of sorts. Perhaps he had best _sit down_ and clear his head. He can join you again, after we've had a dance,” Lady de Chevin insists.

 

“Nonsense. The man is merely rendered speechless in my presence. How is one to act when in the midst of a dashing mage? Come now, Commander: I don't bite. Not unless you want me to,” Dorian says, with a coy wink.

 

Maker's breath!

 

“Y-yes. Uh...r-r-right. Dancing.”

 

Well, at least those were words.

 

Now he's more than certain that the woman is glaring beneath her mask.

 

“You must excuse us, Lady de Chevin. I believe the next song is about to start.”

 

The only thing willing Cullen's feet to move is the pressure on his lower back, guiding him towards the opposite end of the dance floor. His thoughts are a jumbled mess, heart hammering wildly in his chest. Everything about Dorian's behavior is the opposite of what he's known the mage to be: he's never denied his interest in men but he's also never expressed it so openly, nor has he initiated physical contact in public. Even the few times Cullen has gotten away with it had been _after_ they stopped seeing each other, his longing for Dorian making him brazenly disregard what may have been uncomfortable for the mage.

 

And now, they are about to dance. In front of _everyone._

 

Fuck. Can Cullen even remember how to dance?

 

The Fereldan gets into position, grasping the mage's right hand in his left and placing his right hand on the middle of the mage's back. Immediately, Dorian makes a sound of extreme displeasure.

 

“What do you think you're doing?” he hisses through a tight smile.

 

Cullen's already incredibly self-conscious and Dorian's tone only puts him more on edge. He shifts his balance awkwardly between his feet. “Um...dancing?”

 

“You're an atrocious dancer and I'd much rather spare my toes, thank you. Here, let me lead.”

 

He's hurt by the mage's insensitive remark but complies as Dorian repositions them, the mage's hand resting confidently on the Fereldan's back as he indicates for Cullen to place his left hand on the mage's shoulder. As the music begins, the mage bumps his knee against Cullen's, who misses the cue to start moving, and the Commander mumbles an apology even as Dorian continues to wear a forced smile.

 

“Step back with your right, follow my hands, not my feet. And _venhedis,_ will you stop looking down! Everyone here will know you have no clue what you're doing.”

 

The first few steps are a bit awkward for Cullen but following is a lot easier than leading and he quickly adapts to the change in position, relying on the pressure in the center of his back to tell him when to step forward (left) and the pressure on his hand to let him know when to go back (right). It irks him that after that display the mage had made, he suddenly cares again what a bunch of nobles think, all but gritting out commands when Cullen missteps.

 

“What was that all about back there?” Cullen whispers, once they find a comfortable rhythm.

 

“Hmm? You mean that little show we put on for Lady de Chevin? The woman's a bit smitten with me and I had to let her know somehow that my inclinations lie elsewhere,” Dorian answers, not seeming to care all that much about putting Cullen on the spot. “I suppose I came off a little strong.”

 

“A little? Maker's breath, I've heard less forward propositions from Lord...Andraste preserve me, I can't bloody well remember his name—and the man's hardly one to keep his hands to himself.”

 

“Well, rest assured, Commander, you'll be free to explore those propositions later once we've had our dance,” Dorian snaps and that tension they have been dancing around for weeks is suddenly back full force, even as he attempts to keep his expression even. “But for now, I needed you to help save me from that vulture and I'd much rather indirectly spurn her advances than openly reject her and incur her wrath in the form of vicious gossip.”

 

They open out of the box step, partners stepping side-by-side forward, Dorian's grip on Cullen's hand firm. It's one of the easier steps Cullen recalled learning, though he always finds he leaves his free hand stretched away from him weakly, not quite sure how parallel he should make it with the rest of his body. Luckily, if the mage has something to say about it, he has chosen to keep that comment to himself.

 

He wants to fester in his anger, in the open disregard Dorian has for him and his feelings, but he senses how upset the mage is, how he hides an anxiety that has him laughing a bit too forcibly and smiling a bit too widely when critical eyes turn their gazes on him: Dorian's terrified of being among the upper echelons of Orlesian society, perhaps reminding him only too acutely of life back in Tevinter.

 

And with that in mind, Cullen feels his impatience begin to dissipate.

 

“I...am sorry. For being less understanding,” the Commander says.

 

They come back towards each other, Cullen once more placing his left hand on Dorian's shoulder and Dorian resting his hand on Cullen's back. Somehow, it brings the Commander more comfort, eases his trepidation at being in the middle of the dance floor with a man he had once shared more than a mutual interest in chess with. Or, maybe, it's humility in the form of an apology that has him and Dorian both no longer seeming to walk on eggshells around each other.

 

He gently squeezes the mage's shoulder and for the first time that night, sees a genuine smile on the mage's face.

 

“Perhaps I shouldn't have put you on the spot like that. Given our...history,” the mage admits.

 

It's not quite _I'm sorry_ but Cullen will take it.

 

“Why had you come down here? Don't tell me there's some poor woman I'll need to apologize to for stealing away her dance partner.”

 

The question takes Cullen by surprise and he colors at what the mage insinuates.

 

“By Andraste, I should hope not! If the need arises, feel free to take me as far from this room as possible, preferably doing something of value that doesn't involve 'mingling' or 'dancing',” the Commander answers. If he has to endure one more conversation on the Empress' choice of attire or the selection of champagne for the evening, he may very well fling himself off the nearest balcony before the night is through. “Which reminds me: the Inquisitor would like your assistance searching the servant's quarters. She asks that you meet her in the Hall of Heroes as soon as you're able.”

 

“I'll head there after we finish. A pity: I was so looking forward to that dance with Lady de Chevin.”

 

His sarcasm has Cullen chuckling. There's a warmth to the mage's gaze that the Commander hasn't seen in some time and though Cullen knows that they may fall back on the awkward tension that's defined their relationship in the last few months, he secretly relishes this moment of open abandon where it's just them, dancing, and nothing can take from him how perfect Dorian feels in his arms right now.

 

Because, if this experience has taught him anything, it's that he loves Dorian. Without question. And he will keep doing so, even if all they can ever be is friends.

 

And Cullen...well, he's okay with that. Or, at least, he will be. Because there's nothing quite as bleak as imagining a life without the mage in it.

 

It's what has the words spilling off his lips before he even realizes what he's saying, falling comfortably into the steps that had once seemed so daunting for him.

 

“I'm sorry, Dorian. For everything.”

 

His voice is thick with regret, has the mage's expression falter from the easy smile he has been wearing. But Cullen doesn't wait for the mage to respond as he continues, needing to get this off his chest while he's in the right head to say it. “My behavior since you ended things has been...well, awful. Not only have I let jealousy get the better of me, I ignored your decision and burdened you with a confession you had never asked for. Perhaps...I had seen something that wasn't there, something I thought was mutual. But it doesn't excuse accusing you of not caring simply because my affections were not returned.”

 

There's a falter in Dorian's step, the first, and only, misstep the mage has taken all evening. A waver in his demeanor, caught off guard as he appears stunned temporarily into a troubled silence.

 

To fill the silence, perhaps a bit afraid of how the mage will respond, Cullen adds, “I want us to be on good terms. Or, at the very least, to put this behind us. And I don't believe either of us can do that if we carry on as we have. You and the Iron Bull have done nothing wrong, certainly nothing to deserve my pettiness.”

 

“Bull and I are not together.”

 

“Oh,” Cullen says, looking down at their moving feet and feeling a little embarrassed over his candid assumption.

 

So, they're only sleeping together. Somehow, it didn't make him feel any less envious of their intimacy.

 

Dorian gives a sigh of resignation. “It's not what you think. We haven't— _I_ haven't—been with anyone. Not since the last time you and I...”

 

The Commander stares up abruptly, eyes wide. “But...your robe...”

 

“ _Kaffas,_ must you remind me? The tragic victim of a night of reckless drinking. I gave up trying to remove the stains and ended up tossing it,” the mage says, looking more irate over the loss of a favored robe than empathetic for the hurt his implied actions had caused. But Cullen's always been poor at masking his feelings and it seems his failure to hide his distress has the mage adding, “I...may have taken your criticisms, justified as they were, a bit too close to heart. And that may have led to an evening of poor choices ending in Bull's bed...but not in the way you think. It was merely a friend saving another far more dashing friend from doing something he'd later regret.”

 

Relief washes over him, the sadness of feeling as if someone else had been chosen over him lifting a dead weight that Cullen has been carrying for some weeks. But it's as fleeting as a trick breeze on a hot summer's day as confusion has the Fereldan furrowing his brows. Dorian doesn't want them to be together so what does it matter if Cullen believes the mage is sharing his bed with someone else? “Why tell me any of this?”

 

“Because you've been nothing but honest with me and...I think the least I can offer is the same.”

 

Dorian raises Cullen's hand, indicating for the Commander to execute a turn. It's a move Cassandra had only shown him once before but the Fereldan follows through, his steps less graceful than the mage's but his heart hammering so wildly in his chest, he cares little for how awkward his dancing appears. He feels the back of Dorian's gloved hand touch the small of his back, guiding the Commander to face him as they finish the turn and Cullen near forgets to breathe as he is faced once more with those piercing, gray eyes gazing at him with intensity.

 

They continue into a box step, the song reaching its climax. But even surrounded by the many masked nobles, intimate chatter drowned out beneath the strings of cellos and violins, Cullen sees only Dorian in that moment.

 

“Not since Rilienus has anyone made me feel as you have,” Dorian admits, his smile melancholic. “I didn't think I would ever find that again, and yet...”

 

There's a sadness in his eyes, no more masks, nothing of pretense in the smile that's wilting off his lips. Cullen is so stunned, he cannot find his voice, can only return the wistful squeeze of their joined hands. He feels a renewed sense of hope, though doubt still whispers insidiously in the back of his mind because surely Dorian cannot be about to say what the Fereldan thinks.

 

“I love you,” Dorian says.

 

There's nothing of hesitation, of doubt. Only certainly that wavers with sorrow, that strips the last of the mage's defenses, leaves him at the mercy of his own admission.

 

Cullen doesn't know if he would be able to keep dancing, had the song gone on. He near stumbles as the music ends but there's a strong hand on his back keeping him upright

 

“Giving this up—giving _you_ up—has been the most difficult thing I've ever done,” the mage adds.

 

Unthinkingly, the Commander steps forward as Dorian's hands leave him, the loss of contact felt so viscerally after the mage's confession, as if he's been stripped bare of his sword and armor and thrust into a field of demons. But the mage steps back, gaze dropping, and whispers, “Don't forget to bow.”

 

In truth, Cullen cares little for upholding courtly etiquette, not with the way his pulse is racing and he's struggling to not take the mage in his arms, confess how he still very much loves the man and wants nothing more than to prove to Dorian that what they have is _enough_ , but he sees the way the mage tenses as they are once again left to the scrutiny of the many eyes that may be gazing curiously at this exchange in the middle of the ballroom.

 

So the Commander complies, bending at the correct angle (bowing is thankfully one of the few things Cassandra didn't have to teach him) and waits until the conversations around them pick up once more before addressing the mage.

 

“There's no need to give any of this up,” Cullen says, falling in step with Dorian as they make their way off the dance floor. The mage's cordial expression rings false to the ex-templar and he knows the mage's defenses are back up, wishes desperately that they could continue this conversation some place that would allow them more privacy. Against his better judgment, he reaches for Dorian's hand. “Dorian, what we have—”

 

The mage pulls his hand back so abruptly, it has Cullen reeling from the forceful rejection of the gesture. A few ladies nearby whisper something in Orlesian, loud enough to be overheard but the Commander can't make any sense of it, though he sees Dorian's face color. “Not here—not now. We can't—”

 

He sees how flustered and anxious the mage has become and guilt nearly has him reaching out once more, the Fereldan so used to offering comfort in small, physical gestures. But he manages to stop himself before he can make it worse, apologies spilling hastily off his tongue. “I-I'm sorry. I shouldn't have...but, perhaps, later...after the ball, we can—”

 

“You misunderstand me, Commander,” the mage whispers, his tone sharp, “We will not speak of this again. Not later, not ever. There's no point in pretending this will work out, regardless of our feelings on the matter.”

 

“So, that's it? You're giving up without even trying?”

 

“I have tried,” Dorian snaps, his whisper louder than intended. They're on the verge of causing a scene and it's only putting the mage more on edge, making his tone sharper.“And every time, I was the one they left. Don't you dare imply that this is simply because I don't want to give you a chance.”

 

But Cullen is too stubborn to empathize, only sees an unnecessary obstacle when there's an easy solution. And, quite honestly, he's pretty damn sick of having his feelings pushed aside and being all but told that he should be with someone else simply because of a mark on his skin. “And what do you expect me to think after the way you ended it? We _can_ make this work. By Andraste, Dorian, I love—”

 

“How can you possibly know that when you haven't even tried with Lavellan?”

 

Any retort Cullen has dies in his throat as he stares, hurt and stunned, by the mage's accusation. It may have been the Tevinter's panic at being put on the spot that had him callously say those words but there's no denying that the emphatic way in which they were said is something the mage has thought about, something he may very well believe.

 

He doesn't think Cullen really loves him.

 

Words Cullen has never said to anyone outside of his family, a confession he had given so earnestly even after Dorian had belittled their relationship, the last resort of a man who knew there was no chance of survival and yet, he dared _hope_ at the risk of humiliation, bearing his most intimate truth to keep from losing _everything._

 

But maybe that's always been the problem: Dorian's feelings are the ones that _matter_ , his insecurities always take precedence over Cullen.

 

What does it matter what Cullen feels if his affections fall on deaf ears?

 

There's regret on Dorian's face almost as soon as it's said. But the damage is done and right then, Cullen is so insulted, he can no longer be within the mage's presence before he also resorts to saying something he'll regret.

 

“Cullen—”

 

“Lavellan's waiting for you,” Cullen cuts him off, head bowed. And, because he's feeling that petty, adds, “I'd offer my thanks for the dance but you seem to know my feelings better than I. I'm certain you've already decided what I would otherwise say on the subject. May you enjoy the rest of your evening, Lord Pavus.”

 

He leaves Dorian at the foot of the stairs and ascends to the upper level, ignoring the murmurs and stares from the few nobles who had caught the end of their exchange. Unfortunately, the obnoxious lord from earlier is already waiting at the top of the steps, bemused smirk on his face, “You know, in Orlais

we have this saying—”

 

“Would you just sod off already!”

 

A few gasps are heard but it's not nearly as loud as the shattering of a wine glass. Although finally getting to speak his mind to the man who has been harassing him all evening isn't enough to chase the sad state his conversation with Dorian has left him in, Cullen at least feels some sense of satisfaction. That is, until he turns towards the sound of the broken glass and sees a shocked, barely-able-to-contain-her-embarrassment-and-rage Josephine Montilyet, giving him a look that strikes fear into his soul and has him very much rethinking his most recent life choices.

 

“My most sincerest of apologies, Lord de Bayeux. This evening has been most trying for the Commander and he seems to forget himself in the presence of amicable company,” Josephine hastily apologizes. “Commander, if you would come with me for a moment.”

 

Well... _fuck!_

 

*

 

“Is this really a valuable use of our time?” Dorian complains, shifting his balance between his feet. He wobbles a little, grasps the Inquisitor's ankles, who is currently standing on his shoulders, and grunts painfully as she grabs onto the wooden beam above, steadying both of them. “ _Fasta vass,_ how many hors d'oeuves did you eat tonight?”

 

“Do you really think you should be complaining when my foot is that close to your face?” Lavellan jokes, grinning down at a very nonplussed and scary Tevinter mage.

 

Well...maybe not so scary. If Dorian had been making any effort to work the scary angle, he could have avoided situations where the Inquisitor climbs him like a tree. Foresight is twenty-twenty, or so they say.

 

“Kick me and I drop you.”

 

“Relax. I've almost got it.”

 

With the small statuette in hand, Lavellan uses her free hand to dangle from the wooden beam, swinging off of Dorian's shoulders. The mage reaches up and helps her down and once she is back safely on the ground, grumbles and begins dusting off the shoulders of his dress coat.

 

“I don't know why you insist on collecting those hideous ornaments.”

 

“Hideous? It's an adorable halla!”

 

“It looks constipated.”

 

“Someone's in a bit of a mood today.”

 

The mage folds his arms over his chest, glaring down at his friend. “A bit of a mood? I, like any sensible person, would rather not be used as a step ladder. Not when we have one Cassandra Pentaghast who so aptly fits that role.”

 

“Well, you can take it up with her when she gets back. I'm sure she has more than a few words to share on that subject,” Lavellan answers, with a smirk.

 

Normally, Dorian would be more in the mood to jest, even welcoming a chance to be paired with the Inquisitor instead of Cassandra, who he suspects he has since earned a top spot on her hit list after everything with Cullen, if her recent iciness towards him is anything to go by. But the Inquisitor had insisted Cassandra and Varric scout ahead together as she brought the mage with her to the kitchens and, of course, when she saw that stupid halla statue, they had to stop everything so she could retrieve it.

 

Why even bring him along if all she wants to do is go treasure hunting?

 

“Besides, who needs Cassandra when I have my strong, handsome mage to fill the role of most distinguished ladder of the Inquisition?”

 

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Dorian sniffs.

 

Okay, maybe it is nice to have his physical virtues acknowledged and recognized. And perhaps he preens a little, even if _distinguished ladder_ is no title anyone should ever aspire to. But so help him, his vanity will be his downfall...if his callous tongue doesn't kill him first.

 

It stings to think of his recent exchange with Cullen, fears he has long since kept hidden uttered so thoughtlessly when the Fereldan's sincerity should have been enough to make him believe the truth in them. But Dorian's heard declarations before, few as they may be, and he's seen how changeable one's heart becomes when they give their soulmate a chance.

 

All it takes is opportunity. And then, affections sour to disdain and he's the one holding them back, preventing the inevitable.

 

So, let Cullen hate him for saying he doesn't believe the man really loves him. If not today, the Commander would have eventually hated the mage had he kept him from Lavellan.

 

“You're doing it again.”

 

“Doing what?” Dorian demands, bristling.

 

“Acting like nothing's wrong when something clearly is.”

 

“And since when did you become a mind reader?”

 

He knows his tone is defensive and it gives away more than he intends. But he's already had one near meltdown this evening and isn't quite in the mood for another.

 

“It's one of my many hidden talents,” Lavellan answers, smugly. “...and I may have overheard the servants mention something of a 'lover's quarrel' between an Inquisition Commander and a Tevinter in the ballroom. I've not met any other Tevinters at this ball but I guess it's possible they may have been talking about someone else.”

 

The put off expression on the mage's face doesn't waver. “I see gossip travels fast.”

 

“I don't trust everything I hear. Otherwise, I would be consoling you over having called out Cullen for the 'many lovers' he's secretly taken.”

 

“That's what they are saying? Utter nonsense. The Commander can hardly string a sentence together when being propositioned, let alone engage in carnal urges of the flesh on a whim. If anyone is to have been deviously taking other lovers in this salacious gossip, it should have been me. Being Tevinter alone makes me more inclined to deviation and sin, according to you southerners. Not to mention I am far more brazen when it comes to my proclivities.”

 

“I'll be sure to change the course of the gossip the next time I get dragged into another conversation about it,” Lavellan says, dryly. Her expression becomes serious, letting Dorian know that he's not about to get away with his glib attempt at redirecting the conversation. “But, back to the point—”

 

“You'll excuse me when I say this, Lavellan—dear as you are to me—but it is, quite frankly, none of your business.”

 

“Oh, I think it is very much my business when you've been using the fact that Cullen and I share the same mark to continuously reject him,” Lavellan insists.

 

Any retort he has is left sitting on the edge of his tongue, Dorian staring in disbelief at his friend. He opens his mouth, perhaps to say something—anything, really—to make him appear less speechless. But he can think of nothing else in that moment, nothing but how he miscalculated the entire situation.

 

When had Cullen told Lavellan?

 

“I'll admit, I don't like intervening. What happens with you and any men you take as lovers is not the kind of thing I need to concern myself with, not when there are plots to murder Empresses and rifts to close,” Lavellan continues. “And if you genuinely don't want to be with Cullen, you have every right to feel that way. But, for the love of the Creators, don't you use me as an excuse to end your relationships. If you don't care about Cullen, then tell him.”

 

“That's not why I did it.”

 

“Then explain it to me.”

 

“I...it's not that simple...”

 

“Really? Because I have no interest in being with Cullen, he has none in being with me, and yet you seem to have taken it upon yourself to make that decision for us,” Lavellen says, more than a little annoyed. “I've spent nearly the last two years failing to convince everyone I'm not some 'Maker-sent' herald of a god I don't believe in. Some days, it feels as if my life is no longer my own. The last thing I need is for my friends to also decide for me who I am to spend the rest of my days with.”

 

Her attempts to keep her tone even fail as her frustration shows, a helplessness that is nearly unnerving hidden beneath the positive demeanor she usually conducts herself with. She's spoken little in the past of the pressure of being 'Herald', though there have been times, when out in the wilderness chasing down demons, Dorian has heard her make a wistful remark about missing her clan, with a longing edged in sadness.

 

She never chose to be Herald, no more than she chose her soulmark.

 

And yet, even with the world falling apart around them, she has taken back some of that agency stripped from her. She has made a _choice._

 

As has Cullen.

 

“ _Kaffas,_ I'm an idiot,” Dorian sighs, the revelation hitting him like a strong slap across the face.

 

“I won't argue with that.”

 

He feigns anger as he glares down at his friend, who looks far too smug for someone holding an ugly halla statue.

 

“Well, be that as it may, you didn't have to agree so readily. I may have to retire early from this treasure hunt of ours to nurse my wounded pride.”

 

Lavellan snorts. “I'm sure your pride will recover. And, perhaps if you show _a lot_ of humility, you may find a certain Commander willing to help dress your wounds.”

 

“It's not that easy. Not after what I said. Not after—”

 

“Dorian,” Lavellan interrupts, touching his elbow gently. The contact is meant to startle him out of the rant he's built and it works. “Yes, we all know how deep of a grave that tongue of yours can dig. But, he chose _you._ He's still choosing you. So maybe instead of expecting failure and walking headfirst into it, you can take a moment to catch your breath and try acting sensibly. It was never him holding both of you back. It's always been _you._ ”

 

He doesn't try denying the truth of her words, knows now that he's let fear get the best of him. Months of loneliness caused by his uncertainty and never before has he felt so ridiculous.

 

The Inquisitor motions for him to follow her and he falls in step behind her as they walk into the adjoining room.

 

“When did you get so wise? Surely, this has to be some demonic trick. I demand to know where Lavellan is and what you have done with her.”

 

Lavellan rolls her eyes and elbows the mage playfully. “Always been wise. You were just never listening.”

 

“I suffer from 'selective hearing', a rather useful condition that has made it possible for me to filter out nonsense.”

 

“Battle tactics, field commands, wake up calls...”

 

“Precisely. Nonsense.”

 

The Dalish elf is laughing, despite herself, and Dorian welcomes the return of their easy banter. Still, something about their recent discussion is itching at his brain, new information he has no idea where to place.

 

“When did you find out? About you and the Commander?”

 

She pauses for a moment, brows furrowed in thought. “I can't say for certain. There's always been this...feeling. After that, it was a matter of putting the pieces together.”

 

“He never told you?”

 

“It's not something we've ever discussed, no.”

 

“So earlier, when you said...”

 

“If you're asking if I was bluffing? Well...”

 

There's something almost anti-climatic about the way she rolls her shoulders, sheepish look on her face.

 

“ _Venhedis,_ you don't get nearly enough credit for that cleverness of yours.”

 

“Both of you had rather telling reactions to my mark. There's a reason neither of you have ever won a game of Wicked Grace,” she points out. “Word of advice: never accept a challenge from Josie. She'll literally take the clothes off your back.”

 

Interest piqued, Dorian's about to ask her to elaborate when the sound of hushed bickering has the two glancing towards the opposite entrance into the room, leading into the hallway. With a grin that doesn't quite hide the color filling her cheeks, Lavellan says, “Come on. We better catch up with those two before Halamshiral ends up with another corpse.”

 

“As impressed as I have been with your diplomacy, I don't think even you can stop the Seeker from exacting vengeance on whatever crass remark our wordsmith has made now,” Dorian answers, chuckling as he follows after the Inquisitor.

 

*

 

With the Empress saved and the fate of Orlais no longer in question, many nobles are escorted from the ballroom to retire for the evening, worn out after a night of scandalous gossip and thwarted murder plots. The Grand Duchess has been dragged away, to be tossed in a cell and await further judgment while, much against the advice given by both Cullen and Cassandra, Gaspard has also been arrested after the Inquisitor found evidence that potentially implicates him. It was all too 'obvious' in a way that doesn't sit well with Cullen and he has a feeling that they're missing something important but he wonders if his empathy and support of Gaspard clouds his judgment. Perhaps they'll never know how involved the Duke was.

 

The only real good that came out of Lavellan's public outing of Florianne's plot is everyone finally stopped talking about Cullen's argument with Dorian and his rudeness towards Lord de Bayeux.

 

And now, the Fereldan is outside on the balcony, leaning on the railing and staring out at the palace grounds as the night wanes. The events of the evening have finally taken its toll on him and he feels the weight of what they partook in, deciding the fate of a nation, settle heavily on his shoulders. But no matter how he tries to fit all the pieces in his head, he feels as if somehow, the decision they made wasn't the right one.

 

There's a sound behind him, a door opening and boots clicking on the linoleum floor. Cullen immediately thinks it's the Inquisitor but Lavellan moves silently, years of scouting the forests so second nature that he suspects she purposely moves louder around her companions to avoid startling them. Whoever it is moves intently and with purpose, stopping to lean on the balcony beside the Commander, their warmth a phantom sensation that doesn't quite brush his arm but remains close enough to suggest familiarity.

 

Cullen's defenses are up and he can't quite keep an edge out of his tone, not that he really tries. “The Inquisitor left some time ago to speak with the Empress. I believe Leliana accompanied her but perhaps one of the guards will be able to assist you in finding her.”

 

“I...had actually been hoping you and I could speak.”

 

He grips the marble railing of the balcony so hard, he wouldn't be surprised if he ends up fraying the leather fabric of his gloves on a chipped edge. He smells it then – a mix of spice and sandalwood, a scent so familiar, it sends a tremor across his skin. It's worse than quitting lyrium, the way he craves contact when in the mage's presence, to reach out and _touch_ the Tevinter. Whatever spell Dorian has cast on Cullen, he's bewitched and at the utter mercy of the man, willing to forget all the damage the Tevinter's carelessness has wrought and _forgive_ because nothing feels quite as horrible as being without him.

 

But Dorian has crossed a line this time and it takes everything, _everything_ , for Cullen to not succumb.

 

“I believe we've both said everything that needs saying,” the Commander says, coolly. “If you'll excuse me.”

 

He doesn't look at the mage as he makes his retreat because he knows himself well enough to not make the same mistake he keeps falling for. He thought _anger_ was what prevailed after Dorian treated his affections so flippantly but all there remains is a subtle sadness that's chipped away the last of his resolve, left him feeling foolish for making himself so vulnerable.

 

A pair of arms slide around him, gripping him, preventing him from taking those final steps towards the door. Dorian's hugging his back, face pressed between Cullen's shoulders where his accursed mark lies, the very thing the mage claims is why they can't be together, and the gesture alone is enough to make the Commander swallow heavily, righteous misery set aflame within his chest.

 

“I'm sorry,” the mage whispers, a crack in his voice.

 

Maker, how many times has Cullen heard that?

 

“And what, Lord Pavus, are you sorry for this time? For making me dance when you clearly found my stiffness embarrassing? Or for humiliating you in front of half of Orlais, whose judgment you apparently trust more than mine?”

 

It's easier to get angry because Cullen doesn't want to crack, doesn't want to give Dorian any more opportunities to shatter what little remains between them, affection that's soured like a fast acting poison, leaving him with little choice but to remove the offending limb before it spreads. He doesn't expect honesty because how little of that has Dorian given him, letting the Commander believe for months that what they have isn't mutual?

 

“I'm sorry you're in love with a fool.”

 

It gives Cullen pause, enough to keep him from trying to disentangle himself from Dorian's grip. He can still storm out of here, tell the mage he's had _enough_ but he hears a small sniffle, feels the mage shake behind him.

 

And, Andraste help him, he already feels the ire he's built begin to crumble.

 

“I won't presume to be deserving of another chance,” Dorian continues. “While repeatedly rejecting one's affections is a common practice in courtship, I understand if I've exhausted my right to play hard-to-get, especially given how put off you are by such frivolous games.”

 

The ex-templar makes a sound in frustration because even when the mage tries to be serious, of course he attempts to deflect some of his embarrassment with glib comments. Coming from anyone else, Cullen would suspect insincerity. But he knows the mage is truly sorry if he's being self-deprecating.

 

“I'm afraid my ego cannot handle any more rejection so I will be suspending all further attempts to court you, Lord Pavus,” Cullen answers. He feels the mage deflate, the arms around his waist beginning to slack, Dorian most likely anticipating some equally glib form of rejection. “You may, however, consult with Leliana and Josephine if you wish to add your proposal to the others they received. As it is, they'll see me married off by the year's end and I apparently have little say in it.”

 

He hears the mage laugh, a weak sound that makes his lips pull in a sad smile. He's not quite ready to forgive, not when uncertainty has him worrying that he can no more trust Dorian to not cast him aside on a whim, no more than the mage seems willing to believe Cullen won't choose Lavellan. But he's tired of falling into the same cycle they've been stuck in, where words remain unsaid and they both make each other miserable. So he relents for the moment, turning and facing Dorian for the first time since the mage came outside. The mage's arms still won't leave Cullen's waist and he relishes in the closeness, removing his gloves and tucking them into the sash before he gently takes the mage's face into his hands, forcing a pair of sad, gray eyes to meet his own.

 

“I know there is little I can say to make up for how I've acted,” Dorian says. “But you must know, Amatus, that I am truly sorry.”

 

It's been so long since he's heard that word, _Amatus,_ that Cullen's gaze softens, his throat feeling so thick, he cannot answer immediately. The sound of strings, the last song for the evening, travels through the open windows and he's suddenly struck with a way to deflect some of the tension, stepping out of Dorian's grip.

 

“I may never have another chance like this so I must ask,” Cullen begins, bowing gracefully as he's met with confusion. “May I have this dance, Lord Pavus?”

 

He extends a hand out to Dorian, who doesn't make any attempt to reach for it. Nervously, Cullen wonders if perhaps he's misread Dorian's mood and, Maker knows it wouldn't be the first time. But as he glances back up at the mage, he sees stormy eyes glistening with tears the mage won't let fall, a look on his face unlike anything Cullen's ever seen before.

 

“I...know you think little of my skills at leading,” Cullen adds, already feeling his confidence dissipating. “But I promise to try and avoid stepping on your feet. I...I'm not that good but...perhaps...”

 

After a pause, the mage struggling to keep his voice from breaking, he admits, quietly, “No man's ever asked me to dance before.”

 

Cullen's never cared for dancing, given little thought beyond treating it like a necessary chore when Josephine made him take lessons. But he sees how much it means to Dorian and, for maybe the only time in his life, he regrets not having taken what little he's learned more seriously, if only to prepare him for what he's about to do.

 

“Then I guess that makes me the first.”

 

His pulse skips as Dorian accepts his hand, their bodies moving close once more as Cullen brings his other hand to the center of the mage's back. He has a false start, attempting to move off tune with the music, but quickly corrects himself and eases them into a simple box step. He lacks Dorian's poise and skill but his grip on the mage remains steady as he guides the pair across the balcony and, unlike Cassandra, Dorian abandons himself completely, putting up no resistance.

 

“ _You must lead confidently if you wish for your partner to trust you and follow,”_ Cassandra had told him.

 

“ _Are you saying you don't trust me?”_

 

Cassandra had looked skeptically down at their feet before saying, _“...do you really require an answer to that?”_

 

Needless to say, it wasn't exactly an inspiring moment.

 

“You're...a lot better than I expected,” Dorian says, breaking Cullen's train of thought.

 

Of course, just when he can use the encouragement, he nearly stumbles as he moves with the wrong foot but adjusts accordingly.

 

“Just how low were your expectations?”

 

“Truthfully? I assumed you'd be more out of your depth than Cole at a dinner party. As it stands, you're better than Lavellan.”

 

Cullen's not sure if that's a compliment but he smiles anyway.

 

“...thank you. I think.”

 

As they look into each others' eyes, Dorian steps in closer. Cullen can't ignore the thudding in his chest, his pulse racing as the space between them closes and he's so distracted that they are no longer really dancing, merely swaying to the dying trills of the song's end. He's not sure which stops first—their feet, or the music—but then the mage's lips are on his, soft and chaste, a hesitation the mage rarely shows when initiating any form of intimacy. He's holding back, uncertain of how Cullen will react. But for all the loneliness the Fereldan has endured from the mage's rejection, Cullen wants to show Dorian that he doesn't have to be afraid, not when the Commander's heart has been steadfast and beats only for one other man.

 

Sliding his tongue between the mage's lips, Cullen chases that hesitation with need that has him kissing back deeply, slowly, savoring the taste, the _feel_ , of the mage. It's his submission, the Commander yielding to _their_ inevitability, because he may have _chosen_ Dorian but it feels as if some part of him has always known that this is where he would end up. So he surrenders, the kiss building into a fervor that feels like it could break him. It's everything—elation, sadness, anger, _hurt—_ every emotion the mage has awakened inside of him that the Commander responds with, leaves them both breathless once they pull apart, gently gasping as Cullen presses his forehead to Dorian's.

 

They stay like that, holding each other, Dorian clinging as tightly to the Commander as Cullen to the mage, neither quite ready to let the moment end. But there's more that Cullen needs to say, words he has a feeling Dorian may not like and his time as a templar has taught him it's better to cauterize a wound instead of leaving it and risking infection.

 

“Dorian, I...you know the extent of which you mean to me,” Cullen starts, feeling far too uneasy to say outright that he loves the mage. And therein lies the problem, where Dorian's earlier accusations sting fresh enough that Cullen worries the mage will doubt him if he says it. “And as much as I...I want to forget these last few months...I'm sorry but it's not that easy.”

 

He realizes only too late his poor choice of wording, the absolute devastation on Dorian's face making him instantly regret his words. “I suppose I can't blame you, not after everything. You deserve bett—”

 

But Cullen refuses to hear it, grasps the mage's hands tightly. “I'll not have you speak so low of yourself. Not when I have done things I can never atone for and am deserving of nothing less than the Maker's judgment. I want to be with you. Maker's breath, this is all I've wanted. But...it may take some time for us—for _me—_ to be as intimate as we once were.”

 

He sees understanding in the mage's eyes.

 

“You're really giving me another chance?”

 

It almost pains him to hear the disbelief in Dorian's voice. Dorian, who can quite easily and obnoxiously list his many physical virtues and proficiency in magic. Yet, he is always the first to put down his own character, despite that Cullen knows the mage has given so much of himself to the Inquisition, not including the numerous times he's risked his life for his companions.

 

“I'd be a fool not to,” the Commander says. He swallows thickly, stares deep into those eyes that have always felt like his weakness but are now his strength, giving him the courage to speak openly about how deep his devotion is. “The truth is, Dorian...you're everything I could hope for. Far more than I deserve. And I don't need our marks to match to assure me that you're enough. Maybe you've heard such promises before and you've seen how easily such words are forgotten. But if it takes the rest of my days, I intend on showing you how much you mean to me so that you never again will have reason to doubt my affections.”

 

“ _Vasta fass,_ ” Dorian curses, voice wavering as he drops his gaze. But Cullen's sees how his eyes mist before he looks down, hears how he struggles to keep his voice steady, and he pulls the mage back into his arms, holding him tightly. It takes a long moment, the Tevinter's legs unsteady as Cullen keeps them both standing, before Dorian can bring himself to respond.“Why must you say these things? It's rather cruel of you to nearly reduce me to a blubbering mess after all the time I put into applying my kohl. I look absolutely hideous when my eyes get all puffy.”

 

“You can be wearing rags and covered in spiders and you'd still be more handsome than everyone in Halamshiral.”

 

“Spiders?” Dorian says, lifting his head from Cullen's shoulder and laughing. “Well, I can think of one Champion who will avoid me like the darkspawn plague if such was the case.”

 

In truth, some of the kohl around the mage's eyes has smudged so the Commander uses his thumb to softly wipe away the lingering dampness, remnants of tears the mage hasn't quite been able to blink back. As his thumb touches Dorian's mole, the mage's lips lift in a small smile at the tender gesture.

 

“I thought that after...I believed I couldn't have this. That I'd be foolish to hope to be more than a pleasant distraction. But if being with you makes me a fool, I may as well declare myself the Inquisition's personal jester. Because even I've grown weary of pretending that I'm not completely and utterly in love with you and your barbaric ways.”

 

Cullen grins as he hears those words, thinks he'll never grow tired of hearing them. He bumps his nose affectionately against Dorian's, rewarded with a gentle sigh as the mage's hand reaches to the back of the Commander's neck, toying with the hairs that have begun to curl out of the oil he uses to tame them. “And what, pray, do you find so barbaric about me, Lord Pavus?”

 

“Besides your Maker-awful fur rag and your Fereldan mannerisms? Your immovable patience when it comes to putting up with foolhardy Tevinter mages is more than a little concerning, Amatus.”

 

“Then perhaps you'd best teach me how to behave because I'm a bit foolish when it comes to a certain Tevinter mage,” Cullen replies, lips finding Dorian's and brushing them in a gentle kiss.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has supported this story! Your reviews have meant so much to me and this story would not have continued if you hadn't taken the time to read and comment. For now, I'm ending it off here since real life is about to get busy for me. But I'd still love to hear your thoughts and, perhaps, if my muse is struck with inspiration, I *might* add an epilogue of some sort in the future.


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